


behind glass

by museaway



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angels, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, M/M, SPN Meant to Be Challenge, Temporary Character Death, fairytale, fairytale thematic elements, hunting injuries, late 90s pop culture references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 20:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7006435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has spent his life secluded in the woods. At his father’s warning, he’s never left the property. He has no memory of his mother, and his father doesn’t come above twice a year with supplies now that Castiel is grown. But when he befriends a boy named Sam who trespasses on his land, and Sam's older brother, whose face and arm were maimed in an accident, he begins to doubt everything his father has told him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [За стеклом](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8789005) by [TerenceFletcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerenceFletcher/pseuds/TerenceFletcher)



> Written for the [SPN Meant to Be](http://spn_meanttobe.livejournal.com/) challenge. See end notes for the original prompt, but suffice to say it's a loose derivation of _Beauty and the Beast_ (with a dash of _Rapunzel_ thrown in). The Winchesters’ lives aren’t altered much from the canon universe, but Castiel’s is. Chuck isn't on page but is referenced a few times. He's a human prophet in this universe, not God (partly because I wrote this well in advance of that episode). 
> 
> For the purpose of this story, please pretend it's plausible to have a swanky glass house in a redwood forest in northern California, because the original prompt took place in the redwoods, and I wanted to keep that setting but plop them somewhere remote. 
> 
> Beta read by K.A. Graves and teacass. 
> 
> **Caution: This fic features on-page temporary character death.** It also features a late '90s model Nokia mobile phone, which got no service anywhere but sometimes you could get a text through. FUN. They had neat ringtones. Despite this fic being set in 1998, there's no homophobia, not even from John.

Castiel stirred at dawn, invigorated by the pungent scent of the forest against his cheek, the cradle of the earth beneath him. He’d spent the night outside, hands buried in the verdant stream of ferns that wound between the redwoods. He’d only meant to rest, pleasantly exhausted by his daily run. He’d sat at the base of a great tree and closed his eyes. That must’ve been twelve hours ago, because the yellow glow of morning suffused the woods, and his exhaustion had passed. He got up to stretch.

His father was due home any day now. He went away more often, now that Castiel was grown, but returned with food and books and supplies a few times a year. Castiel never knew precisely when he would return, but he tightened his shoelaces and ran back to the house. Maybe it would be today.

They’d come to these woods when Castiel was very small. For twenty-one years, he and his father had lived in the glass house he glimpsed in the distance, constructed miles from any road. It stretched skyward, corridors and rooms branching off in the manner of the colossal trees that guarded them from the outside world.

No one came here. No one knew Castiel, but he was happy. He had no memory of anything before.

He panted when he approached the house, his breaths part of the chorus. All around him, the forest burst to life. With the sunrise came the trill of birds, scamper of invisible feet bounding deeper into the trees. He spared a minute to look in on his bees, satisfied the entrance to the hive was not obstructed—he’d lost a good number to chalkbrood last season. Drones crawled across his knuckles and buzzed lazily around his head. He wished them good morning and brushed them away with careful hands, and climbed the forty-four steps to the house.

Save for the whir of appliances and rolling howl of the wind against the glass, the house was still. No one answered when he called out. 

“Dad?”

Perhaps tomorrow. Castiel’s footsteps echoed hollowly on his retreat to the shower, to wash the forest from his skin. Sometimes he wished the bees could follow him upstairs to interrupt the silence.

#

“Sure no one’s gonna bother the boys, Bobby?” 

The trunk thundered closed. From the rickety porch swing, Dean watched his dad and Bobby lug the bags from the trunk onto the wrap-around porch. His cheek ached under the bandages and it took all of his self control not to scratch the gashes. It was lucky Bobby had been in Oregon when dad called yesterday. He’d driven all night to meet them here. The secluded cabin was safer than a motel, he’d convinced dad, and cheaper. They’d leave the car in case the boys needed anything and go finish off the wendigo. Sam and Dean would be fine on their own for a week. Dean was nineteen, after all. He cradled his bad arm against his body.

“There’s no one for miles,” Bobby said, guiding Sam up the cabin’s steps. He unlocked the door. The key swung from a vinyl keychain with an advertisement on it, the kind Dean nicked from automotive shops. “Place belongs to an old friend of mine. He doesn’t come here much anymore. Boys’ll be fine as long as they stay put.”

“Dean?” John said. Dean raised his head. 

“Yes, sir?”

“Come inside. I want Bobby to look at your arm.”

Dean’s boots left tracks on the dusty cabin floor. John emptied the grocery bags into an aging refrigerator, and Sam claimed the biggest of the three bedrooms, flopping back onto the bed. It coughed a cloud of dust. Dean took the one across the hall and sat on the side of the mattress away from the window, leaning over his knees. 

Bobby came in without knocking, holding out a set of sheets. He set them on a plain wood dresser and lay the back of his hand across Dean’s forehead.

“How’re you feeling, son?”

“Like I went twelve rounds with Holyfield.”

“Next time your daddy tells you to stay back, you listen to him.”

“I thought I had a shot,” Dean said. He rubbed away a sigh and held still as Bobby unwrapped the gauze wound around Dean’s forearm.

“Sam patched you up?”

“Yeah, in the back while dad was driving.”

Bobby applied a salve to the claw marks that ran the length of Dean’s arm. “Good news is you’ll heal fine, but these scars won’t be pretty.”

“At least I still got my personality.”

“Why did you go anywhere near it?”

“Flare gun wouldn’t fire.”

Bobby teased the gauze from the side of Dean’s face and cursed under his breath.

“How bad?” Dean asked.

“You need a stitch or two. Sam?” Bobby called, looking to the hallway, his neck and face blotchy with anger. “I want you to stay with your brother and put these sheets on the bed. I have to get some things out of my truck.”

#

Dean felt numb listening to the crunch of Bobby’s truck meandering down the wooded drive back to the main road. They had supplies for a couple weeks, a landline phone, and Sam was under orders to check Dean’s wounds daily. 

“Dean’s hurt. Why aren’t you staying?” he’d overheard Sam ask their dad. 

“Bobby and I have work to do,” John had said. “I know you’ll take good care of him, Sammy.”

He’d poked his head into the bedroom to say goodbye. Dean hadn’t gotten out of bed. 

Bobby said town was just a few miles away. He’d marked it on a map that he’d left on the kitchen counter. John left them with the Impala and a few good credit cards. 

Dean stared at the remains of a cobweb dangling from the ceiling. Sam’s footsteps came up the hall. 

“You want to watch something?” he asked. His voice was timid.

“Maybe later, okay?” Dean tried to smile for Sam’s sake, but smiling pulled his stitches. He patted the bed next to him. 

“Does it hurt a lot?” Sam asked. He tucked his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them. 

“Yeah.”

Sam chewed on his lip. “There’s a hospital on the map. It’s only eighty miles from here.”

“I’ll be fine. I just need to sleep.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Nah,” Dean said, then pulled partly upright using his abdominal muscles. He sluggishly licked his lips. “D’you want me to make you something?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I can cook, Dean. I’m fifteen.”

“Well if you need anything, you wake me up, okay? Whatever Bobby gave me is starting to kick in. I can’t keep my eyes open.”

“Is it alright if I go outside and read?”

“Yeah, just stay close to the house,” Dean said, turning onto his side, so he put no pressure on his bad arm. His heart beat in the gashes on his face. “We’ve got no idea what’s in these woods.”

#

Clean and dressed, Castiel fixed himself oatmeal with honey and fruit, and sat at the long, narrow table set against the window. It looked down upon his beehives and the herb garden he tended during the summer, and a long-haired boy who stumbled over a fallen branch.

The boy pitched forward and broke his fall with his hands, then wiped them on his jeans and squinted up at the house. 

Castiel shoved back from the glass. He was miles from neighboring houses, his father had said, and hours from the closest town. He hadn’t heard an engine, so the boy must’ve come on foot, but where did he come _from_? Although his first instinct was fear, gnawing curiosity eased him forward. The boy was gangly, arms and legs too long for his body—a teenager, if Castiel had to guess by the skinniness of his face. He’d likely just gone through a growth spurt. Just a child, then, but a child was unlikely to be unaccompanied. 

Castiel had been eight years old when the man in a gray suit had appeared in their woods. He hadn’t come up to the house, but Castiel had watched him fearlessly through the window, enthralled with the circle of gold around his head. “Go to your room,” his father had said. “Now, Castiel. Don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe.” Castiel had clutched the only picture he had of his mother until his father came back inside and bandaged his hand, which had dripped a trail of blood up the staircase. 

He’d ordered Castiel to stay in his room and not to come out regardless of what he heard, which had sounded like a flock of birds, two voices—his father’s and a second that was very soft—and then silence. Chuck had gone into the woods with paint and a knife, and hadn’t returned until nightfall. He said Castiel’s tutor couldn’t come after that. No one came to the house after that, not until the boy. 

A picture of Castiel’s mother stood on the mantle in a gold frame. Her hair was the red of the sky at sunset, her smile faint. He looked at the picture for courage and went outside.

The boy bent at the waist examining Castiel’s beehives, but he wasn’t harassing them. He kept his arms behind his back. There was a sweetness, an innocent curiosity to his face. Castiel knew instinctively this boy meant no harm, but he shouldn’t be here. 

Castiel descended the stairs. His bare feet disturbed the ground, making the boy’s head snap up. He reached for something under his plaid shirt but faltered before he could produce it. 

“Sorry, sir,” he said, backing up a step. “I didn’t know anyone was home.”

If anyone approached the house, no matter the reason they gave, Castiel wasn’t to trust them. That’s what his father had ordered since Castiel could understand. “It’s for your safety, Castiel. Promise me you’ll remember this,” he’d said, guiding Castiel’s finger through the soil over and over until he’d memorized the alien shape he was to draw if any of them came. 

He didn’t draw the shape now but canted his head, curious, and came nearer. His father had never warned against children, and it was possible this one was simply lost. “What are you doing here?” Castiel said, taking another step. His voice was rough from disuse and came out throaty. When was the last time he’d spoken aloud? 

“Taking a walk,” the boy said. 

“Do you live nearby?”

The boy pulled out a pocket knife. Castiel had read about them and knew their shape, knew the boy could flick the blade open in mere seconds. The steadiness of his hand told Castiel he knew how to use it. 

“Why?” the boy asked with understandable caution.

“I want to make sure you’re safe,” Castiel clarified. He stopped walking and held up his hands.

“My brother’s right behind me.” The boy held the knife against his thigh, but he didn’t open it, and no one else came up the trail. He stared at Castiel for the better part of a minute and asked, “Is this your house?”

“Yes.”

“It’s big.”

Castiel had no frame of reference; it didn’t seem large, compared to the castles in his books, but he didn’t argue. The boy wasn’t a threat; his aura blazed deep orange at his edges, like a flame. 

“I’m Castiel,” he said. 

The boy blinked and, looking to the knife as if for guidance, thrust out his other hand. Castiel had never shaken one before. 

The boy was hesitant but not unfriendly, his handshake firm. “Hi,” he said with a crooked grin. “I’m Sam.”

#

Dean awoke to a quiet cabin and the stab of an empty stomach. He called for Sam but didn't get an answer. The painkillers had worn off, leaving his arm and face throbbing. 

The sounds outside the cabin were unfamiliar: birdsong, the shimmer of wind through the leaves. He shivered and drew the sheet to his shoulders. The window was still light, but the sun didn't spill inside. It leaked between dusty slat blinds. The cabin hadn't been abused so much as neglected, left to age alone in the woods. Light caught on a skin of dust on the nightstand and on the thick dresser that stood against the far wall. The walls were bare, devoid of art, but lovely on their own: row after row of evenly sized logs, stacked to an airy ceiling. Dean called for Sam again, but he didn't answer.

Bobby and dad would have warded the house before they left, and Sam had enough practical experience with the supernatural to know better than to wander off. Still, he was just a kid, curious as hell, and Dean's protective instincts roared as the wendigo had roared the night of the attack. 

He hobbled, sleep dizzy, to Sam's empty bedroom, and to the cabin's main room, striped with late afternoon sunlight. The television was off. Dean's leather jacket hung, lonely, on a peg beside the front door, only one pair of boots beneath it.

“Dammit.” Dean called for Sam again. Opening his mouth pulled the stitches in his cheek tight, but he swept aside the sickness that kneaded his stomach and wrenched the front door wide. 

The Impala crouched beneath the carport and the porch swing creaked in the wind. Sam had left a cup of water on the railing, but he wasn’t on the porch. Dean yelled his name but got no answer. He struggled into his jacket and boots, doing a poor job lacing them with one arm. Even if Sam had taken the mobile phone, calling him from the cabin line wouldn’t do any good—they had no service this far from a major city. He’d be lucky to get a text message through, but Sam had left it to charge. Dean’s only choice was to go after Sam on foot. Dean took a shotgun and followed a set of footprints sunk into the dark soil, leading into the dense forest west of the drive. 

Jurassic ferns brushed his shoulder as he went past. They bowed to the breeze. He slapped them out of his face and trudged through the mud. The forest was thick and lush and dappled with sunlight. A distant stream babbled in time to the trill and chatter of birds. Backlit by the sun, the trunks appeared almost black and stretched so high he couldn’t make out their tops. Deep grooves ran down each tree, as though the bark had been shredded. Where they caught the light, they were red as the sun-baked terra cotta pots his mom had kept stuffed with herbs on their back porch. He’d helped her poke holes for the seeds. The pots had burned, too.

Dean lost his trail in a stand of ferns and turned in a circle, cursing. He was going to kick Sam’s ass when he found him. He might even tell dad—Sam deserved a tongue lashing after this. He’d been about to resume shouting when the ferns parted and Sam stumbled into view with a book tucked under his arm.

“Dean!” 

“What the hell are you doing out here?”

“I went for a walk! There’s a trail that runs for a couple miles.” Sam touched the bandage over Dean’s cheek with a worried expression. “You’re bleeding. I think you tore your stitches.”

“That's because I was yelling for you! What were you thinking? There’s mountain lions out here.”

“I think I could handle a mountain lion,” Sam said, and although he was furious, Dean put an arm around Sam’s shoulders and steered him toward the cabin. 

#

Dean was still angry over dinner, but he kept quiet while Sam ate two plates of spaghetti, picking at the edge of the new square of gauze Sam had taped to his cheek.

“You’ll scar,” Sam said with reproach, swatting at Dean with a fork. Dean sat back so the tines missed him by a foot and gave a carefree shrug.

“Chicks dig scars.”

“You don’t even know any girls.”

“ _You_ don’t even—” He broke off and took a drink of water. “Find anything good up the trail?”

“Mostly trees. There’s a house about a mile and a half away.”

Dean’s eyes fell on the art book spread open on the counter.

“Sammy…” He scratched his neck and knocked his fists against the tabletop. “I know we don’t get by on the most legit terms, but I don’t want you growing up thinking that’s okay. If you want something, you tell me and I’ll figure out a way to get it. I don’t want you stealing.”

“I didn’t!” Sam’s eyes were wide and earnest.

“Sam…”

“I didn’t steal anything! There was a guy in his garden and I talked to him for a few minutes. He seemed pretty lonely. Anyway, he said I could borrow the book. He’s got a whole library.”

“You got this from a stranger?”

Sam sat up straighter. “His name’s Castiel.”

“I don’t care what his name is! Did he do anything to you?”

“Dean!”

“Answer me.”

“I’m not stupid,” Sam said. “He’s not that much older than me. Anyway, you should see his house, Dean! It’s huge.”

“I don’t want to see it, and I don’t want you going back there. Not by yourself.”

“Fine, you can come with me. I said I’d bring the book back tomorrow.”

The painkillers were taking effect and beginning to make Dean woozy. Another twenty minutes and he’d be drooling onto his plate.

“Look, why don’t we clean up, watch a movie.”

“Sure,” Sam said glumly. He cleared the plates and put them in the sink. Dean sat impotent at the table. His arm wouldn’t be right for weeks, but at least the pain was tolerable. He untied the sling and left it on his chair.

“Dean...”

“Can it.” The television remote wasn’t on the coffee table, so he searched in the media console drawers only to find the batteries were dead. They’d leaked acid in the plastic compartment. He scratched the battery terminals clean, flicking away the pale green crust with a fingernail. “We got any triple As?”

“In my suitcase. I’ll get them.” Sam bounded down the hallway. “How many do you need?”

“Two.” 

Sam brought the batteries and took the remote without asking. He kept hold of it and sat a cushion away. “Requests?”

“Don’t matter,” Dean said.

“Doesn’t,” Sam corrected. 

“No chick flicks.”

They settled on a Stallone movie already halfway finished. Dean watched less than ten minutes before he was staring at the back of his eyelids.

#

The painkillers were prescription meds, and since Dean didn’t have a prescription, they were illegal. Sam knew that, even though dad and Bobby wouldn’t tell him for certain. The drugs were too strong to be over the counter. The Tylenol that Dean gave him never made Sam tired, but Dean was drooling onto his shirt and it wasn’t even eight o’clock. Percocets could make people tired. Dad probably stole them from a family they’d helped.

Sam lowered the volume and switched to the Discovery Channel, since Dean wasn’t awake to tease him for watching a show about the ocean. He microwaved a bowl of popcorn and ate the entire thing without sharing. Dean always dropped some on the floor and between couch cushions, and since his hands were larger, he tended to leave only a third for Sam, who had to satisfy his snack craving by crunching on the unpopped kernels rolling around the bottom of the bowl. 

He happily tossed those in the garbage and left the dishes for morning. Dean wasn’t easy to wake up, but he was lucid long enough for Sam to get him to his room and beneath the covers. Dean groaned when he put pressure on his arm. Sam pushed on his shoulder until he rolled onto his back, and the hard lines of pain on his face softened. Dean didn’t let people take care of him; Sam liked the scarce times he had a chance to. 

He brushed his teeth and changed for bed, and slid between the sheets Bobby had brought for them. They were softer than the ones at motels where they often stayed, the kind of sheets Sam hoped they’d have if they ever got a house somewhere. He wiggled his toes and cracked the cover of the art book, laying it across his lap. 

The pages were luxuriously thick and glossy, like books he'd seen in libraries. Bobby had a room of books like that. The few Sam owned were battered paperbacks he'd rescued from hotel lobbies or bought for pocket change at a yard sale. He was careful not to damage the spine. The cover had light surface damage, but the pages bore no fingerprints or smudges. If Castiel hadn’t said the book was one of his favorites, Sam might have guessed it had never been handled. He was cautious as he turned each page, touching them only long enough that they could fall the rest of the way independent of his hand. 

He recognized Picasso and van Gogh’s paintings from school, but he studied most for the first time, entranced by their colors and movement, amazed that anger could be captured in a harsh brush stroke. 

The book entertained him for over an hour, until his chin began to nod toward his chest, and he wasn't looking at the pages anymore. Fearful of damaging it, he set the book aside and switched off the light. He could look at the rest of the pictures in the morning and then walk the book back to Castiel, after breakfast when Dean was asleep again. He wouldn't even know Sam had been gone.

#

Castiel smiled when Sam trudged up the path, his cheeks hot from the long walk, a curtain of hair hanging in his eyes. Castiel tended a scrawny plant that had made a home beneath the stairs. There was a smudge of dirt on his forehead. Sam shoved the damp hair from his face and thrust the book out to him with both hands. 

“Did you enjoy it?” Castiel asked, though he didn’t take the book, holding up his soiled hands. 

“I loved it,” Sam blurted. “I loved the colors.”

Castiel’s smile widened. He gestured toward the stairs with his head. “I was just heading in for lunch. Would...would you like to come up?” 

“I can’t stay long,” Sam said, hesitating. He had to stop watching those late-night horror movies with Dean; they made him paranoid. Nothing had happened yesterday when he went into Castiel’s house and nothing would happen today. “My brother doesn't know I left.”

With a tilt of his head, Castiel asked, “Why didn't you tell him you were coming here?” 

“He would have said I couldn't come.”

“If your brother is your guardian, you should respect his wishes.”

“He's just being a worry wart,” Sam scoffed. “He'll feel better once his arm heals.”

“What happened to his arm?”

Sam kicked a rock. “A dog bit him.” Anyone who had seen Dean’s wounds would know that was a lie, but Castiel hadn’t seen them and wouldn’t. Self conscious about the sweat beginning to soak his collar and under his arms, Sam moved a few steps back.

“Have you eaten?” Castiel asked.

“I'm going to make something when I get home.”

“I was about to make a sandwich if you'd like one.”

If Castiel's food was as nice as the house, he probably ate like royalty, and Dean would be asleep for a while. Sam had a little time. He didn’t care what Dean would think. Castiel seemed friendly. Odd, certainly—who kept a beehive at their house? But he wasn’t frightening. He wasn’t a _monster_ , that was for sure, just a quirky guy with funny hair that stuck up in places and tailored clothes. 

“Okay,” Sam said and went with him up the hand-hewn stairs. 

Every surface in Castiel's home shone with cleanliness Sam had only seen in hospitals. But it didn't smell like a hospital. Sam had never been inside a house that smelled this nice before, fresh like ozone, with warm notes of wood and real leather. Nothing like the cheap motel rooms their dad could afford, with dark woven carpets and bedspreads dotted with cigarette burns. 

He hesitated in the door before walking on the polished wooden floor in his mud-caked boots. He bent to unlace them, deciding to leave them beside the door, and followed Castiel in socked feet.

They've been in a lot of houses with their dad, but he’d never seen a house made out of glass. From the top of the stairs, it was possible to see straight through to the other side, to the redwoods beyond. 

“The kitchen is this way.” Castiel's voice echoed around a bookshelf, stacked floor-to-ceiling with hardcover volumes. Sam itched to run his fingers over the bump of each spine. He curled them into his palms, embarrassed by the dirt beneath his fingernails, the secondhand canvas jacket he wore that was a size too small. 

“Do you mind if I wash my hands?”

Castiel directed him to the sink and opened the refrigerator, which Sam hadn’t noticed at first, built into a wall of cherry cabinetry. 

“Do you have an aversion to peanut butter?” Castiel asked. “I made bread this morning, but I'd have to defrost meat. I can put honey on it.”

Sam’s good opinion of Castiel was further validated by the fact that he ate simply, despite living in such a grand house. “Peanut butter is fine.”

They ate at a table next to the window off of ceramic plates, not paper or takeout containers. Sometimes the motel rooms dad got had kitchenettes. Sometimes plates too. But Castiel’s plates were fine china, a matched set of blue plates ringed with delicate white flowers. The kind of plates Dean thought were funny to use for target practice when they’d taken care of a spirit in a fancy restaurant last September.

“How long have you lived here?” Sam asked, wiping his mouth on a cloth napkin instead of his sleeve. He daintily replaced it on his lap.

“All my life.”

“You live by yourself?”

“Mostly,” Castiel said. “My father is away a lot.”

“My dad's away a lot too.”

“What does he do?”

Sam took a fat bite of his sandwich and washed it down with a sip of cranberry juice. The peanut butter was thick, unsweetened and freshly ground—he’d never be able to eat Peter Pan again without a wistful memory of the flavor. He pondered the question. He _could_ tell Castiel that his dad was a mechanic—that was technically true—but it usually led to questions about a shop. Sam hated when people assumed his dad was unemployed, so he said, “He and my uncle are on a hunting trip.”

“And your brother is taking care of you while they’re away?”

Sam gave a slow nod, bringing the glass to his lips, and slurped until an ice cube bumped against his tongue. Castiel watched him, tilting his head as though fascinated, and Sam remembered his table manners. He set the glass down and cleaned his mouth. 

“Would you like more?” Castiel offered, as though there had been nothing rude in Sam’s behavior.

“My dad never buys this kind,” Sam mumbled.

“Drink all you like.” Castiel pushed the carafe across the table’s midpoint. He didn’t flinch when Sam filled his glass halfway, so he kept pouring until the juice reached the top. 

“Where do you get this stuff?” he asked, hoping he could bribe Dean into buying a bottle as soon as he was okay to drive.

“My father brings me supplies.”

“Why don’t you go yourself?” Sam asked. Castiel was an adult, probably old enough to have finished college and have a job, so it was logical that he would buy his own groceries.

“Why would I do that?” Castiel asked, frowning in genuine confusion. “Everything I need is here.”

“Yeah, if we had a house like this, I wouldn’t want to leave either,” Sam conceded. He grinned and tore off a bite-sized piece of crust. “Hey, have you been out to the ocean?”

“No. I’ve never left this property.”

Sam swallowed. “Not ever?” Castiel shook his head, and Sam didn’t know what to say. “Don’t you get lonely?”

“I have books.”

“What about school? Didn’t you leave then?”

“I had a tutor for a while, and my father home schooled me,” Castiel said. Sam had heard of kids who were too sick to go to school, or lived in areas where the schools weren’t good, and had been educated at home instead. If Castiel was sick, it wouldn’t be polite to ask about it, so Sam twiddled his thumbs. 

“Oh,” he said and hoped Castiel might offer more information, but he changed the subject.

“Tell me about your brother.”

“Dean? He's older than me,” Sam said, and because Castiel leaned his elbows on the table with seeming interest, he added, “He can fix any car and he loves music.”

“What kind?”

“Old stuff.” Sam snorted. “The stuff my dad likes. And he's _really_ smart, but he doesn't think he is.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno, but he said he doesn’t want to go to college.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” Sam said. “At my last school, they said we should be thinking about it, even though it’s a few years away, but I don’t know if dad will let me go.”

“What does your mother think?”

“She died in a fire when we were little.”

“Oh.” Castiel took a moment to process that, licking his lips and bowing his head respectfully. “I'm sorry for your loss,” he said. 

“I was just a baby,” Sam said, anxious to relieve the awkwardness that had crept into their conversation. “Dean remembers her, though. He was four.”

“That must have been difficult for him.”

“I guess. He doesn’t talk about her much.”

“I wish I had a brother,” Castiel said, gazing at a point over Sam’s shoulder. “It must be nice.”

“Except he thinks he has to take care of me,” Sam said. Castiel caught his eye again.

“You seem reasonably self-sufficient.”

“Tell _him_ that,” Sam huffed. “He can't use his arm and still tried to make me dinner last night, like he thinks I'm going to burn the place down.”

“Given what you told me about your mother, that fear might not be misplaced.”

“I never thought about it like that,” Sam admitted. “Is it just you and your dad?”

“Yes.”

“And you've really never left this house?”

“I run,” Castiel said with a slight frown. “My property is expansive; I simply don’t leave it.”

“No offense, but that's pretty weird. Aren’t you curious about what’s out there?”

“My father commanded me not to leave.”

“But why?” Sam asked.

“He said it isn't safe.”

Castiel’s father was right about that. Sam slumped in his chair and rubbed a scar on his arm. He had too many for someone just fifteen. “There’s a lot of bad stuff out there. That’s how Dean got hurt.”

“You said it was a dog,” Castiel said. 

“Bad dog.” Sam checked his watch, still too big for his skinny wrist, an old model with a clunky black face and a thick strap. Dean had given it to him when he’d nicked a new one for himself. “I should get back. Dean will be up soon.”

“Would you like to take another book with you?”

Sam’s head shot up. “Can I?”

“Of course, as long as you return it.”

“Thanks, Castiel.” He spent a few minutes studying the titles on each shelf. “One day I'm going to have a library like yours.”

“Mine is always open to you. Come any time.”

They’d leave the area as soon as dad and Bobby returned, and it wasn’t likely they’d come back to this part of the country. Sometimes dad checked up on people they’d helped if they were closeby, but Sam knew he wouldn’t come back to the cabin or to Castiel’s glass house in the forest. He hated that certainty. Maybe this was why Dean preferred no attachments. 

“Do you have a telephone?” he asked, disappointed but hardly surprised when Castiel shook his head. Letters, then. He’d give Castiel Bobby's address in Sioux Falls. Sam could send him updates from the road and he’d pick up Castiel’s letters a couple times a year. That way, Castiel would get to see more of the world, and Sam could still count him as a friend. 

Satisfied, he selected a photography book of national monuments: Arches and Zion National Parks, the Grand Canyon. Dean promised they'd go there one day and take an actual vacation: camp out on the North Rim, hike one of the shorter trails. No hunting involved.

#

Sam was stretched on the couch with the book on his lap when Dean woke up and lumbered ogre-like into the room. He yawned without covering his mouth.

“There’s coffee,” Sam said. Dean took one look at what Sam was reading and narrowed his eyes. 

“Did you go to that house again?”

“Yes,” Sam said, pulling up into his shoulders.

“Dammit, Sam! I told you—”

“You’re not dad.”

“Dad's not here, and dad left me in charge of you, so if I say you don't go somewhere, you sit your ass on that couch and you don't move. Understand?”

Fiery anger pooled in Sam’s stomach and palms. It scalded his cheeks. A sense of justice made him want to fight back, but he stopped before the argument got past his mouth. Fear lurked beneath Dean’s scowl, hidden in the crease between his eyebrows and the slight parting of his lips. Sam snapped the book closed and, laying it aside, ducked around Dean into the kitchen.

“Are you hungry? I already ate but I can make you something. How’s your face?”

“Itches.” Dean pivoted in place but kept his eyes on Sam. His frown wasn’t as deep, but he scoffed when Sam pulled out the box of oatmeal packets. “I’m not eating that crap.”

“It won’t hurt to chew,” Sam said.

“Tastes like glue.”

“You can add things, like you do with my mac and cheese.”

“Whatever.” Dean flopped on the couch, catching his bad arm against his stomach. It punched a groan out of him. 

“Do you need more medicine?” Sam asked. He put the oatmeal into the microwave to cook and wiped down the counter.

“I'm fine.”

“If you hurt, you should take it.” When Dean didn’t answer, he added, “Dad would agree with me.”

Sam didn't wait for Dean to argue back. He put two pills in Dean's hand and waited until he’d swallowed them. 

“Happy?” Dean asked.

Sam set Dean’s oatmeal and a spoon on the coffee table and went back to his book, tracing the red rock of the Grand Canyon. And while Dean muttered and drew heaping spoonfuls of oatmeal out of the bowl, watching them drip like grotesque stalactites from his spoon, he did eat.

#

“How did you get into beekeeping?”

Sam's voice cut through Castiel's concentration. His father didn't watch him work. Chuck was a small, twitchy man, too nervous to be around the bees. He usually stayed inside when Castiel tended to them. 

Castiel’s constitution must have been inherited from his mother’s side. He’d never had a fear of the outdoors or anything in the forest. As a child, he’d wept over the death of insects. He’d once stroked a bumblebee in his palm as it seized and died. He’d buried them, in the manner he’d read that people buried cherished pets, fashioning small grave markers out of rocks and sticks. Would Sam find that strange?

Sam slouched on the lowest step, boots planted in the soil, elbows propped on his knees. He held his chin in his palms and didn’t swat the bees that buzzed curiously near him.

“I read a book about it,” Castiel said.

“Do they ever sting you?”

“Only if I upset them. The trick is to be calm.”

Sam hummed and lay back on the stairs, bringing his hands to rest on his stomach. He shut his eyes and smiled into the sunlight. “I like it here,” he said.

He stayed until mid-morning, dozing in the dappled sunlight that fell across the stairs, and posed an avalanche of questions: had Castiel really never seen TV? Had he built the hives himself? He’d never heard of the world wide web? In turn, Castiel was amazed by Sam’s mobile phone, about four inches long and gray, with a small screen that revealed a message from Sam’s brother.

_where r u_

“I gotta go.” Sam rubbed his eyes and took the book he’d borrowed yesterday from his bag—he’d read six so far.

“Do you want another?” Castiel asked, because if Sam borrowed a book again, he would have to come back to return it.

He sent Sam with three and a bag of honey cookies he’d baked that morning instead of taking his usual run. He hadn't gone running since he met Sam, which only registered now that he was thinking about it. The excitement of someone to talk to had been all the adrenaline rush he needed, but it had been nearly a week. He’d go for a run as soon as Sam left.

The cushion of his running shoes and snap of elastic on his hips afforded a certain freedom from the pleasant humdrum of everyday. The moment his full weight came down on one heel, he was alive. Even when his lungs ached and he no longer felt in control of his limbs, body gone liquid from exertion and his legs limp as noodles, he was exhilarated.

He ran for miles toward the western edge of the property, intending to reach the street that marked it—why shouldn’t he? Sam came and went as he pleased, and nothing happened to him. Castiel wouldn’t go past the road, but this way he could say that yes, indeed, he’d left the property once. His father never had to know. 

Castiel glimpsed the road through the tree trunks, a stretch of asphalt not a minute away! Victorious, he increased his speed as he approached it, when nausea buckled his knees and sent him sprawling a yard shy. He often ran for hours on the trails crisscrossing his family’s land. His body was well-conditioned and he’d eaten breakfast. The sudden dizziness and lack of energy wasn’t for lack of athletic ability. He must be coming down with something.

In his rush out the door, he'd forgotten water. It had been years since he’d made that amateur mistake and his head ached for it, the muscles in his calves and thighs cramping mercilessly. He needed electrolytes. Sitting up, he leaned over his toes to stretch his legs. If the cramps wouldn’t ease, he could always walk back. 

His house was set far enough from any road that cars were rarely more than a distant rumble, but this close to the road, they thundered past. One coasted over the crest of a hill, a behemoth of a vehicle, long and glossy black. Chuck’s cars had changed over the years but were always practical sedans. This was older, a late ‘60s model by the body shape. A Chevrolet, perhaps. He’d never spent much time with the automotive books. 

He flexed his ankle to stretch his calves, happy the car had provided a distraction from his discomfort. He was almost sorry he’d never find out what type of car it was, but it was gone now. The nausea had worked its way out of his body, but he was still weak. Castiel struggled to his feet, sucking in the bitter tar scent of the hot road, and trudged home.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam didn’t come the next day, and the following two it rained so hard that Castiel stayed indoors. The forest soaked up the rain overnight, and though the air was thick with humidity, he ran the fourth morning, determined to reach the road today. Summer was a blessing. He suffered the long winter months when he couldn’t go outside because of the snow and hated to waste today, even though mud quickly coated his shoes and weighed him down. 

Even with three days’ rest and a full breakfast, the nausea hit worse today. But he dragged himself forward onto the road in spite of it, _to_ spite it, and drank the water from the pack around his waist. After a few minutes, the sick feeling lifted and he was well enough to walk. He continued in the same direction, taking him farther from the house than he’d ever ventured. 

A car approached. He should get off the road. The rain had stopped several hours ago, but the ground was still wet. Residual raindrops fell from the trees when the wind shook them, slicking the surface. Castiel’s skin was cold even though his heart was pounding. His shirt clung to his chest and back, and he had mud up to his knees. He kept to the weedy shoulder, as far off the road as he could manage, as the car came into view.

It barrelled past at furious speed, music pounding the windows, and abruptly stopped a short distance past him. Over the beat of a harsh, unfamiliar song, a voice he’d never heard called, "You okay?”

The same black car he’d seen a few days ago idled at the side of the road. The driver was a young man. He had one hand on the steering wheel and leaned across the car to speak through the open passenger window. A square bandage stuck to his cheek. His hair was darker than Sam’s but not as dark as Castiel’s, and though his face was thin, he was as painfully beautiful as the young men frozen eternally in Renaissance paintings. Despite his beauty, the light around him churned muddy like the forest floor, slipping into black. Chuck’s light darkened when Castiel used to ask about his mother, but never like this.

The man had spoken to him. He’d asked a question, but Castiel was so captivated by the pink of his lips, and the way his eyes slipped from Castiel's eyes to his mouth to his muddy knees, that he’d forgotten what it was. 

“I was running,” he said stupidly. It was not the right thing to say. The man's face changed, what might have passed for interest sliding into concern.

“Do you need help?”

Chuck used to ask that when Castiel was little, but it was odd coming from a stranger. Castiel had made the decision to leave his house; it was his responsibility to get home. He’d wash the mud from his skin and clothes, and wouldn’t run this way next time. He wouldn’t run this way again. 

He shook his head and kept walking, hoping the man would drive away, but the car inched backward beside him, inciting a prickle of fear in his stomach. He could easily slip into the woods, but if the man pursued him on foot, Castiel might not have the energy to get away from him. Could this be one of the people his father had warned him about? He subtly checked his surroundings for something sharp.

“I'm fine,” he lied, and he smiled because he wanted the man to believe him, roll up the window and drive away. He did neither of those things. 

“Are you Castiel?”

Fear spread into his chest; his heart pounded so rapidly he could hear it. He trembled and took a step back, retreating to his father’s land. A branch cracked underfoot, the sound of his own bones breaking between this man’s hands. His father had warned him, for twenty-one years he’d warned him. Why had he left the property? Why had he allowed Sam’s words to affect him? 

The man must've recognized the fear on Castiel’s face, because he switched off the music. His voice was softer when he spoke again, the colors at his edges less turbulent. “I'm Sam's brother.”

That made sense. Castiel flooded with relief, feeling foolish over his reaction, although it was justified. He took a breath that did nothing to calm him down.

“You're Dean?” he panted.

“Yeah. Didn't mean to freak you out, man. Are you sure you're okay, or can I give you a ride?”

Castiel motioned to the state of his clothes, but Dean made a tsk noise and unlocked the door. “You’ve got no idea what this car has seen.”

Castiel opened the passenger's side. Dean laid an old plaid shirt on the seat for him to sit on. It was missing an arm, but the material was soft against the back of his thighs. 

“Which way is your house?” Dean asked. 

The question was simple, but he’d never gone home by road before. He squinted out the window, figuring out the direction they needed to drive in order to reach it.

He pointed behind them. 

“I have to pick something up in town,” Dean said, scratching at the bandage. It covered most of the right side of his face, beneath his eye all the way to his jaw. “You wanna ride along or do you want me to drop you off first?”

“I’ll come with you,” Castiel said, enthralled by the danger of the proposition. He was already in the car. He felt at ease with Dean now that they were sitting with each other and rested his hands on his knees, anticipating the first roll forward. But instead of operating the car, Dean tapped his shoulder.

“Buckle up.”

“What?”

“Seat belt.” 

Castiel felt foolish for the second time since they’d met. He had an idea of how seat belts worked, but it was thrilling to hear it click into place. He let out a pleased sigh that he’d buckled it correctly and resumed his forward position.

Dean stared at him as though he had Cerberus’ three heads, then checked the rearview mirror and guided them onto the road. He drove with his right arm, wound with bandages, held against his stomach.

“Where’s Sam?” Castiel asked. 

“Sleeping. The squirt stayed up past midnight two days in a row reading those books you gave him. We're out of bread, so I thought I’d pick up some food before he gets up.”

“I hope your arm is improving,” Castiel said. When Dean didn’t answer, he added, “Sam said you were injured.”

“It’s getting there. Look..” Dean rubbed his neck. “I want to apologize for him just showing up the way he did. Sam's a good kid. He knows not to trespass.”

“I don't believe he would have approached my house if he thought I was home. He seemed surprised when I spoke to him.”

“I appreciate you not calling the cops.”

“He's highly intelligent. I’ve enjoyed his company.” The car hit a bump, and Castiel grabbed the dashboard. “This is exciting,” he said.

Dean glanced at him. “Getting into a car with a stranger?”

“Being in a car at all. This one is beautiful.”

“You haven’t been in a car before?”

Castiel shook his head. "Not that I remember. I suppose it’s possible I rode in one a long time ago."

“You do know what year it is, right?”

“It’s 1998.”

“So you live in a glass house in the woods, raise bees, make awesome cookies, and give books to teenagers who happen to wander onto your property?”

“Sam is the first person I've loaned books to, but the rest is accurate.”

“And you run everywhere?”

“For fitness. And I find it clears my head.”

“What about food? Toilet paper?”

“I have enough supplies to last a year. My father replenishes them when he comes.”

“When's the last time you saw him?”

“April 23rd.”

“It's September,” Dean said roughly. 

“Yes,” Castiel agreed. “He should visit soon.”

“Jesus.” Dean said the word so quietly, Castiel wasn’t sure he was meant to overhear. “I thought my old man was bad.”

After that, they didn't say anything for a while. Gray mist hung across the road, splitting oncoming headlights into starbursts. Castiel pressed his cheek to the wonderfully cool glass. Raindrops struck rapidly and shimmied up the windshield toward the roof. He was lucky Dean had stopped when he did or he would’ve been soaked. Dean switched on the wiper blades and the radio. The music was unfamiliar, but Castiel enjoyed the beat, in-sync with the dreamlike rush of wheels over the road.

Dean squinted into the fog. "What shit weather."

The car rumbled around the curve and out of the forest. The colorless sky, unimpeded by trees, arched overhead to reveal a quiet town on either side of them. He’d read about towns, dreamt how they must look based on their descriptions. He’d seen pictures of French and German villages, rounded cathedral domes in Russia. This didn’t resemble his vision of how an American town might look, less charming than ones paved in cobblestones and crumbling brickwork. But Castiel adored its ugliness: the bland facades, rough-edged roads fringed with weeds, and powerlines slumped across the roadway. 

Dean parked in front of a convenience store and made a fist around his keys.

“Are you okay to wait in the car, or do you want to come in with me?”

Castiel grappled at the door latch and followed.

He held his breath as he approached the glass doors. He startled when they opened of their own accord and bumped into Dean, who shook his head and strode inside. Aisles burst with attractively bottled products, many he’d read about but never seen, and at the end of each aisle were signs advertising special values. Castiel gaped at the likeness of a woman winking seductively from an advertisement for mascara and collided with Dean again.

“Dude, it’s called personal space?” Dean muttered and turned left down the farthest aisle. 

Glass cases lined it, filled with packages labeled milk, cheese, eggs, butter, ham. Loaves of white bread occupied shelves next to jars of peanuts and trail mix. Peanut butter. Canned soup. Dean picked up a loaf of white bread and a package of cold cuts from one of the refrigerated cases. He asked Castiel to hand him a pack of cheese, and it was a moment before he located it: a square package, two inches high, wrapped in blue and clear plastic. He placed it in Dean's palm.

Dean led him down another aisle containing bandages and painkillers. He knelt down to pick through the lowest shelf. Castiel knelt too, fascinated by how much there was to see, and it had been so close this whole time! He’d had no idea. Chuck had never told him, implying that the distance was too great. Was it possible his father didn’t know the town was here? 

He read the box in Dean’s hand over his shoulder: sterile gauze pads, 100 count. Dean’s light was becoming warmer, the brown suffused with hints of fire. His hair smelled nice, fresh, like the woods. It tickled Castiel’s nose.

“What did I just say?” Dean muttered, knocking Castiel away with an elbow. Castiel stood up and locked his arms at his sides. Dean’s light was muddy again; he was upset.

“I apologize,” Castiel said.

“It’s cool. Just...you do that to the wrong person and shit can happen, you know?”

He didn't know. He didn't understand, but he nodded and let Dean think he did. Dean paid for everything with a credit card. Castiel had never seen one of those either. Made of smooth plastic, it fit in his hand. He marvelled at the holographic image behind the raised series of numbers, stroking it with an index finger. The cashier stared at him and snapped his gum. The name on the card wasn’t Dean’s. 

“Who is…?” Castiel began to ask, but Dean snatched the card back and shoved it in his wallet. 

The rain had stopped again and the sun was partially out. It had warmed the inside of the car while they were in the store. Castiel melted against the seat. The mud had almost dried, and aside from wanting to take a shower, he felt better.

“What kind of car is this?” he asked, remembering to buckle his seat belt.

“A ‘67 Chevy,” Dean said. “She was my dad’s. Guess she’s _still_ my dad’s, but I’ve been taking care of her. It’s getting harder for him to get in the seat as he gets older. Hoping he lets me keep her when he gets a truck.” He liked talking about his car; his colors improved when he did. 

“You’re worried he’ll give it to Sam instead?”

“I’m worried he’ll sell it, although we could use the money.”

Dean kept the windows down and the radio low on the ride back. Wind ruffled his hair and filled the car with his scent. Castiel trailed a hand outside the window and filled his lungs with it. The outside air caught his palm and pushed it backwards, washing over his fingertips. The forest rose up and became dense, and within minutes, Dean turned onto an unmarked road that led into the woods. Castiel was home. 

Dean didn’t shut off the engine. He unlocked the doors and Castiel slid from the car, bending to speak with Dean through the window. His legs wobbled. The nausea had returned and he suddenly found it difficult to stand. Adrenaline had bolstered him while he was with Dean, but now he needed soup and rest. 

“Thank you,” he said. He couldn’t make Dean understand what the last hour had meant to him, so he didn’t try except to smile. If he never saw Dean again, he wanted to remember him this way, as the color of an extinguished fire. 

“No problem.” Dean gave him a half-smile that turned Castiel’s stomach molten. “Look...I know we just met, but Sammy seems to like you, and I feel bad as hell that you're stuck in that house all by yourself, so if you want to come by for dinner, you know the way?”

He had an idea, based on the direction Sam came from. He’d run that way before, though never far enough east to reach their cabin. The thought of seeing Dean again thrilled him but a voice in the back of his mind whispered that he was sick because he’d disobeyed. A skin formed over his excitement. “That's very kind, Dean, but…”

“But what?”

“I appreciate the ride and your company, but…” He took a breath. “I shouldn’t have gone with you today.”

“Yeah, I got that. What I don't get is why.”

Castiel shook his head. 

“Has your dad ever hurt you?” Dean pressed. “Forced you to do something you didn’t want?”

“My father has never hurt me,” Castiel said, horrified.

“What about your mom?”

“I don't remember her.”

“She’s gone?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because it’s not natural keeping a kid locked up. Fact is, if you were underage, I’d call the cops, but you’re older than me so they won’t do a damned thing.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Sam said the two of _you_ are alone.”

“I’m an adult, and my dad’ll be back in a week or two, tops. Growing up, we were on our own sometimes, yeah, but when he couldn’t watch us, we’d stay with Bobby and I ain’t never been restricted to the grounds. We went to school. Sammy still goes. I’ve met a hell of a lot of people in my life, but not one in your situation.”

“I see.”

“What I’m saying is, if you need help, we can help you.”

“I don’t know why you think I need anything from you,” Castiel said, cold toward Dean for the first time. “You don’t know me or my father. You’re making presumptions based on your idea of what is ‘normal’ and ‘acceptable.’”

“Do you always make air quotes when you talk?” Dean asked, smirking. Castiel found it impossible to glare at him for long. Staring at Dean made him feel hot all over. He sighed and looked away.

“The dinner offer stands,” Dean said. “I'll give you my number. You can call me if you change your mind. I’ll pick you up.”

“I don't have a phone.”

“Of course you don't.” Dean sounded frustrated. Wisps of black bled into his light and Castiel disliked that he was the reason for that.

“Thank you again,” he said, hoping to halt their advance. “It was wonderful to meet you.”

“Yeah, no problem. Don’t run so far next time, Forrest.”

“I don’t understand…” Castiel began to say, but Dean had already rolled up his window. What a horrible ending. As Dean backed down the driveway and the black car was lost to the forest’s camouflage, Castiel fought the sudden urge to scream.

#

Dean dumped the grocery bags on the counter and began to unpack them. He put the milk in the fridge but left out the peanut butter and bread. Sam shuffled into the kitchen quietly. 

“I met your boyfriend,” Dean said. 

“Castiel? Where?”

“Half dead on the side of the road.”

Sam looked upset, his mouth falling open. “Is he okay?”

“He's fine. I drove him home.”

“He's nice, isn’t he?”

“He’s a dork, but he seemed pretty harmless. His situation is fucking weird, though. You know he’s never been in a car?”

“He told me he’s never left that house. Do you think he was kidnapped?” Sam asked, pulling out a bar stool. “Or being held there?”

“I don’t know what the deal is. He says he’s not being mistreated. I told him he was welcome to come here for dinner, but he shot me down. It’s just the two of us. Sandwiches okay?”

“Sure. Movie?”

“Yeah. Let me just…” Dean motioned to the bag from the convenience store. “I bought more gauze.”

“Do you want help?”

“It’ll go faster.”

Sam gave a beatific smile. “I’ll get the tape.”

They found a Nick Cage action flick on TV and were an hour in when there was a persistent knocking at the door.

Dean lifted his head. “You expecting someone?”

Sam leaned back so he could see out the window. “Maybe dad’s back?”

“He would’ve called.” Rising quietly, Dean crossed to the door and picked up the shotgun. The knocking came again, two distinct blows, one after the other—definitely corporeal. “Who’s there?”

The reply was weak. “It’s Castiel.”

Dean unlocked the door and threw it open. Castiel was holding himself upright with a hand on the door jamb. His color was wrong. He looked pale, a little green around the edges, two seconds from hurling on the doorstep. It was early evening, still light out. Castiel had changed into long dark pants and a white button-down shirt, and his hair was damp from the shower and neatly combed. He gasped for breath.

“Jesus,” Dean said. He pulled Castiel inside and bolted the door. “What the hell happened?”

“I didn’t feel well earlier, but I thought it had passed,” Castiel said. “I need to sit down.”

“Castiel!” Sam exclaimed, bounding off the couch. Castiel managed a partial smile.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Get him to the couch,” Dean said, and Sam immediately put a hand on Castiel’s back and guided him into the living room. “You want some water?”

“Yes, please,” Castiel croaked.

“Have you eaten?” Sam asked. “It’s probably your blood sugar. I get dizzy when I don’t eat enough.”

“I haven’t had dinner,” Castiel admitted. 

“Think you can handle a piece of toast?” Dean held up the loaf of bread.

“Thank you,” said Castiel. “After you left I thought about what you said, and it seemed ridiculous to refuse your offer when we live so close. I hope it’s still open.”

“Course,” Dean said. He scrounged through cabinets, unsuccessfully searching for a toaster, and settled on the broiler. “Sam and I were just watching a movie. He can catch you up.”

Sam raised an arm, gesturing toward the television screen, and in a gush of words, gave Castiel a summary of the plot so far. Dean buttered the toast and found a jar of cinnamon to sprinkle on top the way his mom used to do.

“The criminals are the protagonists?” Castiel asked Sam.

“Yes,” Sam said.

“But they’ve broken the law.”

“Sometimes the good guys aren’t the ones you think.” Dean handed the plate of toast to Castiel and balanced on the arm of the sofa. “Get that in you. You’ll feel better.”

Castiel took a bite and swallowed it. “I apologize for disrupting your evening.”

Dean playfully swatted his shoulder. “Shut up and watch the movie. You want a beer?”

“I’ll take one,” Sam said brightly.

“You’re fifteen. You can have milk,” Dean said. “Cas is an adult.”

“No, thank you,” Castiel said.

“You’ve never had beer either, huh?” Dean asked, but Castiel gave him a smug look.

“Actually, I prefer wine.”

“Touche.” Dean got a beer for himself and told Sam to shove over. They crowded onto the right side of the couch, giving Castiel the most space. Dean kicked off his boots.

“Gross, Dean,” Sam said when he flexed his toes.

“Shut up or the socks are coming off.” He flicked Sam’s hair, which was twice as long as dad had ever allowed Dean to wear his. “When’s the last time you took a shower?”

Sam jerked away from his hand. “Yesterday.”

“You’re taking one before bed. You stink.”

“I was _planning to_ ,” Sam said with a frown. “I didn’t check the stitches on your face yet. Are they bothering you?”

“You’re bothering me.”

“Your comebacks are so lame,” Sam said.

Castiel had angled his position on the couch so he was turned toward them, and watched their conversation with a neutral face. “Are you always like this with one another?”

“Pretty much,” Dean said. 

“It’s interesting.”

“How’s your toast?”

“Good, thank you. I didn’t hear the last minute of the film.”

“You’re not missing much,” Dean said. He blew out a breath so hard his lips vibrated. “The best parts are the explosions.”

“Why would anyone watch explosions for entertainment?” Castiel asked.

“It’s cool when shit blows up,” Dean said. “Better than a romance.”

“I like love stories,” Castiel said.

“Me too,” Sam said.

Dean rolled his eyes and took a long pull of his beer, distracted by Castiel’s intense concentration on the movie, how he watched as though he were analyzing every detail and nuance on screen. He flinched when a structure blew sky-high, knocking Dean with his elbow. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered and Dean smiled a little.

He thought he understood why Sam liked being around Castiel so much. Something about him was soothing. He smelled nice. He wasn’t a bad looking guy, either—weary around the eyes and sporting a day’s stubble on his cheeks and jaw, but attractive. The kind of guy he could imagine slamming him up against a wall. Not that Dean did things like that, but thinking about it wasn’t a crime. It’s not like he’d _act_ on it. He was just in a dry spell, and having his face torn up wasn’t helping matters. 

Not twenty minutes later, Castiel had fallen asleep holding the empty plate. Sam and Dean finished the movie in silence. 

“Guess he’s sleeping here,” Dean muttered when they switched off the set for the night. “Do we have an extra blanket?”

“He can have mine,” Sam said. “I kicked it off last night.”

“Alright, you take care of Mr. Comatose, and I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll do my face then. Don’t forget to—”

“Shower. I know.” Sam stared at Castiel for a beat. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”

Dean ruffled Sam’s hair. “He’s with us. Why wouldn’t he be? Night, jerk.” 

#

For the first time in his life, Castiel woke in a room that wasn’t his. The air held traces of dust and damp, reminiscent of soil beneath the ferns. He took a steadying, satisfying breath. His body no longer ached and the dizziness had gone completely. The couch creaked when he rolled to sit up, sinking underneath him, as though it might swallow him into its gray, nubby fabric. 

He opened his mouth several times to clear the taste of sleep. His eyes watered from the early morning light spilling in the Eastern window. The trees outside were the same trees he could see from his own home, and he recalled feeling sick again on the trail Sam had used for two weeks, collapsing into Dean’s arms in the doorway of a forgotten cabin. Explosions and toast. The knowledge that he shouldn’t be here fighting his brittle determination not to leave. 

But he’d reasoned there was little chance of his father arriving today, and to give up Dean’s invitation out of fear, when he’d ridden into town with no consequences, seemed naive. He couldn’t take back the car ride, the sensation of wind on his face and hands, or the vibration of the car barreling them down the road faster than Castiel had ever run. He couldn’t erase the wonderful tingling in his stomach when he thought about Dean’s face. He’d spent the time after Dean left lying on the sofa, reciting his father’s commands. 

_“It isn't safe. Do you understand? It isn't safe, Castiel. You can’t ever leave this place.”_

That was clearly a fallacy. Sam hadn’t hurt him, didn’t want to hurt him, and though Dean’s manners were coarse, Castiel knew Dean wished him no harm. Last night, they’d taken him in without question, sat him down and fed him. The devil takes many forms—his readings had preached this—but Sam and Dean were not the devil’s work. 

Holding his mother’s photograph hadn’t made him feel better. He had no memory of her. For as long as he could remember, she’d stood on the mantle over the fireplace that kept him warm in the winter, above the chair Chuck used to sit in and read to Castiel when he was small and Chuck was there every day. She’d always been a source of solace before. 

For the first time in his life, Castiel woke in a room that wasn't his and experienced doubt. 

A hand thrust a steaming mug over his shoulder. “Coffee?”

There was a clean square of gauze taped to Dean's cheek, smaller than the square he’d worn yesterday. He must be healing. He’d shaved the left side of his face and his chin, but stubble grew into two angry red gashes emerging from beneath the bandage. 

The coffee scalded Castiel’s mouth. Dean brewed it stronger than he made his own, but he liked the taste. He curled a leg under himself and drank, watching Dean over the rim. Dean sat on the opposite end of the couch. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked. 

Angry, Castiel thought. He scraped his nails against the couch’s ugly, wonderful fabric. “Better,” he said. “Thank you.” 

“There's cereal if you're hungry. I'll make something once Sammy gets up. Bathroom’s down the hall. You care if I watch something?”

Castiel shook his head and Dean switched on the television. Castiel finished his coffee and went to freshen up. He scrubbed the taste of sleep and coffee from his teeth with a finger and discovered Dean and Sam arguing across the kitchen island. 

“You promised we could go while we were here!” Sam said. 

“Look outside.” Dean pointed to the window. “It's gonna rain again. We can go another day.”

“What if dad gets back before then?”

“Dad hasn't called,” Dean muttered. 

“This is so unfair. How come Bobby gets to go places and I’m stuck here?”

“‘Cause dad doesn't want anything to happen to you. You start school in a couple weeks. Think of this like vacation.”

“I'm _trying to_. That’s why I want to go to the beach.”

Castiel was intruding on a private conversation, but he had to walk through the kitchen to reach the door, and it would be awkward to stand in the hallway any longer. He cleared his throat. Dean noticed him and straightened.

“Castiel probably wants to see the ocean too,” Sam said defiantly. 

Castiel was stuck in the awkward position as a hinge in their conversation, and while he didn't want to offend Sam, upsetting Dean could mean he’d be shown the door. He went to the window and studied the sky. Dark clouds gathered at the horizon. He should leave now if he expected to get home dry. 

“I’d enjoy that, but Dean’s right about the rain. There's a storm front.”

“It's settled,” Dean said. “Pancakes?”

Castiel should return home. He should thank them for their hospitality and go before Chuck found out he’d disobeyed, but Sam said that Dean made the best pancakes and Castiel was given flipping duty, armed with a spatula. 

They ate on the porch, protected from the rain by the overhang. Castiel shivered whenever the wind blew and scattered rain on his calves, but the fresh air made the food taste better, even once the pancakes had gone cold. Dean planted a boot on the porch railing and rocked his chair backwards. Castiel and Sam both laughed when Dean's foot slipped from the railing and his chair thudded to the ground.

“Keep laughing and I'll take a beach vacation for one,” Dean said. “Neither one of you knows how to use the car.”

“I can drive,” Sam argued.

“If you could reach the pedals.” Dean swatted his head. “I'm going in.”

“Is your arm okay?” Sam asked. 

“My ass is numb from sitting on these chairs. Stop worrying. Think I might sleep for a while.”

The rest of breakfast was quiet with Dean gone. Sam finished eating and lay his plate on the empty chair, then picked up sticks and other debris littering the porch. He pitched them into the wet yard.

“You want to do something?” Sam asked. Another hour couldn’t hurt. Castiel’s heart stuttered.

“What do you have in mind?”

#

Watching TV with Castiel was funny because he thought the commercials were entertaining. He leaned forward over his knees with a serious expression and asked Sam questions about every product, what each did, where he could find them. There wasn’t anything on worth watching, so Sam surrendered the remote and let Castiel channel surf. He picked up a book and glanced up occasionally, when Castiel asked a question or laughed. 

Dean napped for a couple hours and woke up in pain. Sam changed the bandages on his arm and his face again, and made him take Tylenol. Dean had always seemed invincible to Sam, but he clearly wasn’t and had never been. The gashes weren't as swollen as they’d been last week, so Sam was satisfied Dean wasn't in risk of infection, but the wounds were ugly. Dean would have scars, a series of pink tributaries down his forearm and his cheek. 

But he could see. The claws had missed his eye by a quarter inch. Maybe he could find someone who wouldn’t mind them. Sam hated the idea of Dean being alone.

Castiel stayed for grilled cheese sandwiches but left before Dean got up, when there was a break in the rain. Dean asked about him, casting his eyes about the living room like Sam had hidden Castiel somewhere, and grunted derisively when Sam said he’d gone home. He complained that there was nothing to watch and that Sam had used too much butter when he cooked. “You got grease all over the friggin’ stove.” He scrubbed at it with his good arm until his face was blotchy red and broke a glass washing the dishes. 

Dean’s bad mood continued until morning, dark as the pregnant clouds that erupted as they were finishing breakfast and churned the driveway back to mud. 

Twenty-four hours later, the weather was still terrible and Sam was ready to commit fratricide. He told Dean to take a drive. After a round of yelling, Dean stomped out and applied the accelerator so hard it flung mud toward the porch and onto the side of the car. Dean would be pissed at himself later when he had to clean it, but he drove off in a storm of Zeppelin beating even through the closed windows.

Dean was an asshole sometimes. Dad said it was his age, that Dean had a lot of pent-up testosterone and it would take him a couple years to calm down, but Sam wasn’t sure that was why he was being a jerk today. 

Dean didn’t go to school anymore, so the only people he saw regularly were Sam and their dad, and Bobby sometimes. Sam knew he picked up girls every few towns because Dean came home late with a lot of red marks on his neck, stinking of perfume. He looked pretty happy afterwards. There hadn’t been any girls in a while, certainly not since Dean’s accident. Sam might be inexperienced but he wasn’t stupid. 

#

The walk home from the cabin had left Castiel so disoriented that he’d gone to bed and not got up for twelve hours. It was probably a virus, something he’d picked up from Sam—his isolation hadn’t done any favors for his immune system. He’d often gotten sick after Chuck visited. But Sam had a point about his blood sugar, so he forced himself out of bed although his head spun and prepared a light breakfast. 

He read for a day and a half, and in the early afternoon, Dean’s car emerged from the woods and idled in the muddy drive. Dean honked twice and waved up at Castiel, who pressed his hands against the glass in starbursts, shocked and excited by Dean’s presence. He put on a jacket and thick shoes and went down to meet him.

The forest smelled of rain, the sharp tang that always accompanied a lightning storm. Dean’s fire smoldered, sparking when he looked at Castiel. “You wanna take a drive?”

Fog erased the treetops, so the forest was a line of ghosts. Castiel put a hand to his stomach when the tires eased onto the main road. The jerking motion brought forth the vestige of his nausea and he moaned, resting his cheek against the glass until it passed. They didn’t talk. Dean left the radio off and held the wheel so tightly, his knuckles pushed against his skin like something out of an anatomy text. 

Castiel didn’t ask where they were going or why Sam wasn’t in the car, and by the time they reached town, he felt well enough to walk.

“Hungry?” Dean had stopped outside a one-story building with six windows. He got out without waiting for Castiel to answer. 

Chimes rang overhead when they opened the door. They were hit by the smell of something fried. Two-and four-person tables were arranged on a scuffed black-and-white floor. A bored-looking bartender dried a row of glasses and across the room, farthest from the door, someone circled a billiards table. Dean picked a booth with torn vinyl seats against the window. He stuck his head in a menu, which he took from a metal stand that held a container of something brown and two smaller black and white containers that probably held salt and pepper. The table was sticky to the touch. Castiel kept his hands in his lap.

A server came by. She wore dark pants to match her expression and thick eyeliner. Dean ordered a cheeseburger supreme and a black and white milkshake. The server looked at an overwhelmed Castiel, who said he’d have the same. They sat in tolerable silence, occasionally looking at each other across the table, until the milkshakes came out and Dean snorted at him for giving himself brain freeze by drinking too quickly. Every time Dean caught his eye, Castiel’s stomach erupted into butterflies.

When their food came out, Dean fished the pickles from his burger and flicked them to the side of his plate. He closed his eyes after taking a bite and made an “okay” sign. Castiel ate to be polite—he should’ve ordered something else. Chuck made burgers but always cooked them until they were nearly burned. Castiel had never liked them. This was juicy, yet somehow crunchy at the edges, and dripped warm grease onto his fingers and the plate. He enjoyed it too much to be embarrassed that he moaned. A smile pulled the corner of Dean’s mouth, but he wiped it away with the ketchup on his lip. 

“I’m gonna shoot pool,” he grunted when he’d cleared his plate. “You okay for a couple minutes?”

Castiel said he was. From his vantage point, he watched Dean approach a stranger—a paunchy man in a baseball cap. They circled the green-felted table. Dean laughed and pushed fingers through his hair, at odds with his sullen mood during lunch. Castiel’s isolation must have made him poor company. Still, Sam found it adequate. They ought to bring food back for him. Castiel considered ordering but didn’t have money and wasn’t certain of protocol. 

Did Dean expect him to pay for his lunch? He should’ve asked when they sat down, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He was too far from home to go on foot in the rain, and he’d probably make himself sicker if he did. If Dean demanded payment, Castiel would see he got it. He cleaned his hands on a paper napkin and stole the thick coaster under his water glass, swollen from condensation. He put it in his pocket.

Dean walked oddly—sashaying, if Castiel had to put a word to it. He bent over the pool table to break, but with each subsequent ball he sunk into a pocket, his steps grew steadier, and the man he played scowled.

“You hustled me,” he accused as Dean walked away. 

Dean peeled a couple dollar bills from a fat roll and crammed the rest in his pocket, but he didn’t sit back down across from Castiel. He threw the money on the table and put on his coat. 

“Let’s go,” he said to Castiel, taking him by the arm to pull him bodily from the booth. He wasn’t laughing anymore. 

“I’m talking to you,” the man said, following. Dean let him get as far as the parking lot before he whipped out a pocket knife and flipped it open. 

“So talk.”

“You’re a piece of shit. I don’t want to see you back here.”

“Get in the car,” Dean said to Castiel and they peeled out in a glorious squeal of tires.

“Why was he mad at you?” Castiel asked when the man was a shrinking, angry figure in the rear-view mirror, shaking his fist. 

“People don’t like parting with money.”

“Didn’t he realize you were playing _for_ money?”

Dean snorted. “He knew. I let him think I wasn’t much of an opponent.”

“You lied,” Castiel said. 

“Sorta.”

“Why?”

“It’s how you get places, Cas.” He turned on the radio. The knife lay inert between them. Castiel stared at it. 

“Have you lied to me?” he asked. 

“Not yet,” Dean said. 

#

Castiel wasn’t better when Dean dropped him off, so he helped Castiel upstairs, keeping a hand on his lower back during the climb. His palm was hot through Castiel’s shirt and made him feverish. 

“Maybe it’s motion sickness,” Dean said. “Sammy gets sick sometimes.” 

He stooped to unlace his boots and left them at the door, then began a self-guided tour of the house. Castiel shadowed him, on his heels as Dean stuck his head into every room, commenting on the stone shower (“You have a sauna?”) and the loft above the living room (“Sammy’d live up there.”). He pointed to the picture on the mantle.

“Is that your mom?”

“Yes,” Castiel said.

“I see where you get your looks,” Dean said, and then appeared flustered that he’d spoken at all. He kept his arms at his sides, only sitting when Castiel suggested it, and wouldn’t make eye contact.

“Would you like something to drink?” Castiel offered. Dean asked for water. Castiel got them both a glass and joined him in the living room. Dean chuckled and shook his head. Castiel caught the note of sincerity in his laugh that had been missing at the restaurant.

“I thought Sammy was bullshitting when he described your place. No wonder you don’t want to leave.” 

Dean laid an arm across the back of the couch. His light was more vibrant today. Like a moth, Castiel unconsciously leaned toward it, mimicking Dean’s posture. He accidentally touched the tips of Dean’s fingers, but instead of reprimanding Castiel as he’d done in the store, Dean held very still. 

Castiel’s heart beat in his thumbs and in his throat. Feeling bold, he outlined the edges of Dean’s fingernails and gently stroked from his first knuckle to his fingertips. He shook with nerves, heart racing and his face overly warm, but Castiel teased Dean’s hand from the couch and pressed their palms together.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched someone. His father had stopped hugging him when Castiel was still young, and his tutor, Hannah, had been strictly professional, not nurturing. Castiel imagined that his mother, if she were alive, might sit with him and place a hand on his shoulder or kiss his forehead before he went to sleep. Touching Dean was a drug. Castiel’s skin sang, tingling everywhere it connected with Dean’s hand. His heart beat like the flutter of a bird’s wings. 

“Have you read Shakespeare?” he asked dizzily, recalling a line from _Romeo and Juliet_.

“Course,” Dean said. 

He swallowed and lifted his eyes, the color of ferns after the rain. Castiel gazed at him. His freckles were abundant, a galaxy sprinkled across the bridge of his nose; his lips a deep rose. He licked them, leaving them shiny and wet. The light emanating from him grew soft and faintly pink. This was the loveliest moment of Castiel’s life—if only it could stretch indefinitely. He threaded his fingers between Dean’s and squeezed.

Dean’s face turned red. He wrenched his hand back and scrambled off the couch, muttering that he’d forgotten the time, he had to get home to Sam. Castiel, bewildered, stayed seated while Dean put on his shoes.

“I’ll catch you later,” Dean said. He left without looking back. 

Castiel didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but he could guess. Dean’s boots had left trace dirt by the front door and he stared at them, too stunned to react. He sat in place for the better part of an hour, marking the time by the path of sunlight on the fireplace wall. The wrong person would be upset by Castiel’s proximity, Dean had warned. He hadn’t included himself in that definition, but Castiel had obviously misunderstood. Dean hadn’t been interested in him. When evening came, he stashed his disappointment with the coaster and the memory of Dean’s touch on the mantle.


	3. Chapter 3

“The rain stopped.” Sam kicked the edge of the coffee table. His shoe left a black mark on the wood. “You said when the rain stopped, we could go.”

Groaning, Dean covered his face with his hands. “Are you ever gonna shut up about this?”

“You promised!”

“Fine,” Dean said. “Get your stuff. Dad hasn’t called anyway.”

Sam leapt off the couch and ran to his room for his camera. “Can Cas come with us?” he called.

“I’m sure Cas is fine where he is.”

“We should stop by his house. He said he wanted to go.”

“What’s wrong with just the two of us?” Dean asked.

“Nothing.” Sam put the camera in his backpack and and filled his water bottle at the kitchen sink. “Do you have a problem with him?”

“Fill one for me too,” Dean muttered. “I’m gonna take this thing off my face.”

He came out of the bathroom wearing a baseball cap, brim pulled down to hide the scars. Sam had pulled the stitches out two days ago but the skin was still tender and pink. He’d put on a long-sleeve shirt that covered the damage to his arm. “You ready?”

Sam asked about Castiel again as they were pulling out of the driveway, so Dean’s resolve caved. He idled outside Castiel’s house while Sam ran up the stairs. Castiel was eating breakfast and reading. He glanced up, startled, when Sam knocked.

“Dean’s driving me to the beach,” Sam said breathlessly once Castiel had opened the door. “Want to come?”

“Oh, I…” Castiel screwed up his face while he searched for the right words. “Thank you, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Please? We’re only going for a couple hours. It’ll be more fun with you there.”

Glancing down to the Impala below, Castiel chewed on his lip and asked, “Are you sure your brother wouldn’t mind?”

“Did you two get in a fight or something?” Sam asked.

“I believe I made him uncomfortable.”

“It’s probably the staring,” Sam confided. “You stare a lot. It creeps people out.”

“Oh.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Sam assured him. “And Dean can be a jerk. If you don’t want to talk to him, you can just talk to me.”

There was a wistfulness to Castiel’s expression, something sad creeping into his eyes. Sam prepared himself for another excuse, but Castiel said, “I’d like to see the ocean” and got his coat.

He climbed into the back seat and passed the ride staring out the window. Dean kept looking back at him through the mirror. He asked Sam for directions and turned the music up, scratching at his newly exposed cheek.

“Don’t touch your face,” Sam said and Dean locked his hand in a death grip on the steering wheel.

It took an uncomfortable two hours to reach the coast, winding through densely forested terrain. Occasionally, Sam could glimpse a building or the river they drove parallel to, but the forest eclipsed his view. He stretched up in his seat when they turned onto Redwood Highway, hoping to catch sight of the water as they approached. He’d spent his life in the back of a car, but the last hour might as well have been a day. They drove through a town split by the river, crossing over it and changing direction to head due west. Sam squirmed in his seat. They almost passed the turnoff for the visitors center, but he smacked Dean in the thigh in time and said, “There!”

They pulled into the first parking lot. Dean parked at a distance from the other cars and put on a pair of sunglasses. Sam scrambled out and opened the back door for Castiel, dragging him past a wooden picnic structure and ankle-high brush, down the ribbon of dirt that led to the water.

Sam snapped pictures as they went, and when his feet first touched sand, he whooped and took off at a sprint toward the ocean. It rolled before him, massive and gray, hugging the coast and stretching to the horizon where it disappeared in fog. The sand was gray and wet. Not like beaches in movies but polka-dotted with rocks and sea-washed bones of once-great trees bleaching in the sunlight. A cluster of gulls poked in the surf.

Dean hung back several yards from the water, his chin dipped, but he gave Sam a thumbs-up when he caught his eye. Castiel, by contrast, stood as close to the water as possible without getting his shoes wet. He crouched down, trailing his finger in the sand, drawing a type of sigil, though Sam hadn’t seen it before. The waves took it, softening the edges of Castiel’s work, erasing it altogether after the third pass. He smiled at his hand and wiped it on his jacket, a funny beige overcoat that trailed behind him where he knelt. He didn’t belt it, and the belt swung in the wind off the Pacific.

Sam ran up and down the beach for an hour, taking pictures of rocks and the vista from the sand. He took a picture of Castiel framed by three hulking rock structures a distance off shore, but Dean wouldn’t stay in frame, ducking every time Sam turned the camera on him. He stole a picture of Dean’s back and, feeling triumphant, put the camera away and sat on the sand to soak up the sun.

Other groups came and went while he sat there. A pair of boys chased each other up and down the beach until a stern woman’s voice called them to the picnic area for lunch. They should’ve brought food, Sam thought. His stomach grumbled.

“She sounds like my tutor,” Castiel confided, sitting next to him. Sam liked sitting with Castiel. It was easy to be quiet with him.

Eventually, Dean joined them, sitting on Sam’s other side. He pulled three sandwiches from his bag.

“When did you make these?” Sam exclaimed, removing the plastic from his and biting down.

“While you were doing your hair. Cas, you want one?”

They hadn’t spoken to each other all morning. Sam thought it was because they didn’t know each other that well and had nothing to say, but under Dean’s attention, Castiel blossomed into the hopeful, soppy expression people wore in those romance movies Dean pretended not to watch. Castiel didn’t know any other people, so it could’ve been due to the novelty. He always smiled at Sam. But then Dean gave Castiel the sandwich. Their hands briefly touched and Dean looked away, down the coast in the opposite direction. He rubbed his neck, and Sam caught him sneaking glances at Castiel and licking his lips. Oh.

They’d probably kiss soon, Sam thought, finishing his sandwich. Gross.

The only way to handle the situation was to exploit it for his own amusement. He tucked the plastic wrap in his pocket and dug his camera back out.

“Smile!” he said, aiming the camera at them. He pressed the button. Dean looked annoyed—he probably guessed what Sam was up to—and Castiel confused. It was a shame that Dean never kept anyone around for long, because the photograph would’ve made a hilarious Christmas present.

He walked his plastic wrap to a trash can and when he came back, they were in the same positions, only Dean had stopped scowling and watched Castiel trace the strange sigil in the sand.

“What is that?” he asked as Sam approached, and Castiel shrugged but continued drawing.

“My father taught it to me.”

“Looks like a clock,” Sam said. The character in the center resembled a waiter with a tray raised to his shoulder. Surrounding it was a circle, and at seven points along the perimeter were markings: a triangle, two uppercase Ns, a six, three, Z, and a broken infinity sign.

“I’m supposed to draw it in blood,” Castiel explained calmly, as though they were speaking about his garden. He brushed the sand from his fingers. “It won’t work like this.”

“What’s it do?” Dean asked. The words came out clipped, but Castiel didn’t seem to mind.

“I don’t know.” He erased the mark before Sam thought to photograph it. Dean removed his sunglasses and caught Sam’s eye over Castiel’s hunched-over form; his mouth was tight.

“I gotta take a leak,” Dean said. Sam saw him pull out his phone as he walked from the beach toward the path leading to the visitors’ center. They might get service here, and Dean was probably calling dad.

Another family spilled onto the beach, crowding against the shore for a group photo. To their right, apart from the main group, stood a woman with rigid posture and a gray suit and high heels—what a weird outfit to wear to the beach! Castiel was staring at her. Sam did too and laughed about how difficult it would be to get the sand out of her shoes. His laughter carried in the wind and she turned hard eyes on them. Guilty for making fun of her so openly, he dipped his chin, and when he looked up again she wasn’t anywhere in sight. Sam felt bad if she’d left because of them—being the perpetual “new kid” at school, he knew how it felt to be made fun of and knew better than to do it to someone else.

“Her light was gold,” Castiel said with quiet, breathy awe. “It was beautiful. Did you see it?”

Sam shook his head slowly, with no understanding of what Castiel had said. He hadn’t seen any light. But Castiel had already turned toward the water and breathed in the salt air.

“Thank you, Sam. I couldn’t have imagined this.”

#

It seemed, by the time they’d left the beach and were an hour into the ride home, that Dean had forgiven Castiel for his transgression a few days ago. He wasn’t holding himself so stiffly, and when he met Castiel’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, unobscured by sunglasses, Dean held his gaze for a breath. Sam had fallen asleep, drowsy from an afternoon in the sun, and the radio was no more than background noise. Castiel was warm and safe and content. When they approached his drive and Dean raised an eyebrow as if to ask if he should turn, Castiel shook his head.

They ate a quiet dinner in the cabin. Dean stirred broccoli into Sam’s macaroni and huffed laughter when Castiel asked for some as well.

“Dean’s allergic to green things,” Sam said, though it was a moment before Castiel realized he was being humorous and not speaking literally.

“I grow broccoli,” he said. “Next spring, I’ll bring you some.”

Something was wrong in what he’d said, but he didn’t know what, just that the brothers went quiet and poked at their plates. A few minutes later, Sam announced that he was going to take a shower and left them alone. Dean put the dishes in the sink and took two beers out of the fridge. He nodded to the porch.

The sky was still bright, though it would be nighttime soon, the air warm and thick with humidity. It smelled of the forest. Dean didn’t sit down on the swing like Castiel hoped he might, so he also remained standing.

“This isn’t our house,” Dean said, opening his beer on the railing. He did the same for Castiel’s and passed it to him. “It, uh...it belongs to a friend of our uncle’s. We’re just staying here for a couple weeks until our dad gets back, and then we’re hitting the road.” He took a long drink. “We’re not coming back here, Cas.”

Disappointment consumed Castiel and stole his voice. He could only nod.

“The thing that sucks is, Sam? He likes you,” Dean continued. “He doesn’t get to make a lot of friends. If it was my call, we’d stay for a while.”

Castiel swallowed thickly. “I will miss Sam very much.”

“He’s gonna miss you too.” Dean made a fist and rested it on the railing. His light rolled a soft red. “The way we live...nothing’s permanent.”

Castiel thought of Dean’s reaction when he’d touched his hand. It might not have been disgust at all but an unwillingness to begin something he couldn’t see through. It dislodged the heavy feeling in Castiel’s chest to believe Dean had left out of kindness. He’d been sorry when Hannah stopped coming, even though she’d been strict, her attitude unyielding. He hadn’t loved her, but he’d missed her presence and blinding light all the same. When Sam and Dean inevitably left, he would grieve.

He rested his hand on the railing next to Dean’s, careful not to touch him. “I’m sure that’s hard for Sam,” he said. He wasn’t certain they were talking about Sam anymore or using him as a proxy. It didn’t matter. Dean nodded slowly and took a long pull on his beer. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“So what’re you gonna do when we leave? Stay in that big house all alone?”

Castiel stared down the long dirt drive. “What choice do I have?”

“You could come with us. Start a new life for yourself someplace. Bobby would help you. You might have family somewhere, Cas. Don’t you want to meet them?”

“I would like to know more about my mother.”

“Then we’ll find her, or find out what happened to her. You’ve got to have a birth certificate somewhere. Maybe there’s a missing child report. We’ll dig ‘em up. Bobby’s good with research. He’s got a lot of contacts. You got your social security card?”

Castiel looked at him blankly.

“We can get you one,” Dean said. “Get you set up with a job. Place to live. A whole new life.”

A roiling anger came over him at Dean’s easy dismissal of Castiel’s life to this point. “I have one,” he snapped. He set his bottle on the railing and shoved past Dean toward the stairs, but Dean caught his arm.

“Hey! Hey. I’m sorry, okay? I’m not trying to…I’m not trying to tell you what to do. You wanna stay here, fine, but stay ‘cause you’re choosing it.”

Castiel looked in the direction of his house, somewhere among the trees. Everything he knew, everything he had ever known, was contained within its glass walls. What would he be without it? Why leave here when he had the guarantee of food and shelter, of education and comfort? He wanted for nothing material, irritated with Dean for suggesting it, furious at his own willingness to turn his back on his possessions and climb into Dean’s car empty handed. He’d never wanted anything more in his life: the promise of friends, of family. Of Dean, who made him confused and lightheaded.

Dean’s hand was firm at his elbow. He stood very close. His skin smelled warm and fragrant from the sun.

Castiel made a choice. He touched his lips to Dean’s, prepared to be shoved away or cursed at, but Dean choked on air and grabbed a fist of Castiel’s shirt. He kissed him hard, inhaling against his cheek, then broke off and rested their foreheads together.

“I’ve never, uh…with a guy. I mean, I’ve thought about it, but...” He sounded embarrassed. His eyes were closed, his breath a hot wash over Castiel’s lips.

“Do you want me to leave?” Castiel asked.

“No.” Dean swallowed. “But Sam’s probably out of the shower. I don’t wanna…not while he’s awake.”

“Alright.”

Dean took a deep breath, kissed him briefly, and went inside. Castiel stood, dazed, on the porch for a few minutes until Sam stuck his head out. “Are you gonna watch a movie with us?”

Castiel collected himself. He straightened his shirt and poured the rest of his beer into the garden—he didn’t need it anymore. He rinsed the bottle and approached the couch. Sam had made an enormous bowl of popcorn that he ate by the handful. Dean caught Castiel’s eye and motioned to the empty spot beside him.

Castiel sat down, and Sam snickered when Dean stretched his arm along the back of the couch behind him. Would they do this if he went with them? Would he spend his evenings with Dean’s hand brushing his neck? He had no idea what was happening on TV—he couldn’t have imagined the euphoria of being touched this way and leaned into it like a cat, angling his head back so Dean’s fingers carded through his hair.

Sam cleared his throat loudly and Dean stopped. He sat forward and pulled the bowl of popcorn onto his lap. As he ate, kernels rained onto the sofa and the floor. He offered the bowl to Castiel, who ate one piece at a time because their hands brushed when he reached for another. They spent almost the entire movie with their knees pressed together, Dean slumped against Castiel’s shoulder.

After the credits had rolled, Sam stepped over popcorn carnage on his way out of the room. He stopped to pick a kernel from his sock. “I’m going to bed, so you two can go back to whatever you were doing outside.” He smirked and spun on his heel.

Castiel didn’t look at Dean until the bedroom door clicked shut.

“Guess that cat’s outta the bag.” Dean laughed anxiously and scratched the injured side of his face. He’d blushed red to his ears. Castiel laced his hands together between his legs.

“I’ll clean up,” he offered, but Dean shushed him before he could stand. His light was a warm, enveloping rose. He licked his lips and leaned into him.

Dean pressed a soft, unhurried kiss to the corner of Castiel’s mouth. He trembled. Castiel brushed his nose against Dean’s cheek to soothe him, and his body came alive. He gripped Dean’s thigh and with his other hand carefully cradled the side of Dean’s face. He let his eyes roam over the scars, but Dean jerked his head, his light flickering, to turn them from Castiel’s view.

Castiel gently eased Dean’s face back. “What did this?” he murmured, stroking a finger along the edge of new pink tissue.

Dean wet his lips again. “A wendigo,” he croaked, and while Castiel could scarcely believe what Dean said, he knew it was true.

“Is that what your father is hunting?”

“Yeah. Bastard got me, so we took off, but my dad called Bobby. They can be a sonofabitch to track, but once you find their lair…” He winced and pulled up his sleeve, revealing the gashes along his forearm. He’d taken the bandages off; the still-healing skin underneath was tender and red. “Sexy, huh?”

Castiel leaned in this time, massaging Dean’s inner thigh with his thumb. Dean grabbed his hand, positioning it where he wanted it. “This okay?” he asked. Castiel nodded that yes, it was, and took it a step further by unfastening Dean’s pants. Dean groaned and dropped his face to Castiel’s shoulder. He was smooth and soft and very warm. He thrust into the circle of Castiel’s fingers, muttering against his neck, “Oh, fuck, Cas, _Cas_ …”

He blazed red at his peak, vibrant and beautiful.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” he panted.

“I read,” Castiel said with playful scorn. He licked a stripe along Dean’s neck. “I’m not naive, Dean.”

Laughing in response, Dean tackled him onto his back. He thrust a hand into Castiel’s pants and sucked a mark on his throat. Castiel became hyper-aware of each finger, of the nerves in his calves and heels, tingling in the soles of his feet. Dean tightened his grip and Castiel arched off the couch. Castiel couldn’t get enough of Dean, couldn’t get close enough, but he tried. He dug his fingers into Dean’s shoulders and rocked up, up, up—gasping at the explosion of colors behind his eyes that contained every shade of the forest.

Dean collapsed on top of him, still breathing hard, and pressed a damp kiss to his cheek. Castiel nipped at his mouth in a drowsy flush of burgeoning affection. He’d read about the feeling, but he’d never anticipated that he might experience it. And now that it pulsed in him, he was reluctant to open his eyes, to let Dean go, for fear it wouldn’t return. Would Dean mind if they lay here through the night so Castiel could wake next to him? Or would they go to Dean’s room and twine together beneath the sheets? What if Dean asked him to leave now that they’d finished, because he’d regretted what they’d done?

“I can hear you thinking,” Dean mumbled. “You okay?”

Castiel tightened his arms around Dean’s back instead of answering. A sudden breeze ruffled his hair—had they left the door open?—and the sound of fluttering filled the room. He’d heard that exact sound once before. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and his skin prickled under a strange, new energy. They weren’t alone.

Castiel bolted upright and bumped Dean’s head, but Dean was already focused on the intruder. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

Castiel scrambled to his feet, putting the couch between himself and the silhouette of a woman that had materialized in front of the television. This—this was what his father had warned him about. A knife. He needed something to cut his hand. He grabbed a paring knife from the kitchen and shallowly sliced his palm, hissing at the sting, and hurried to paint the shape he knew by rote on a cabinet door.

As he worked, Dean flipped open his switchblade and charged the woman without warning, sinking the blade into her chest. She didn’t react except to look at it quizzically, then pull it out and lay it on the coffee table beside the empty popcorn bowl.

Sam came down the hallway. “Why’re you shouting?” he called and switched on the lights.

Castiel’s hand hovered over the bloody mark. He had only to touch his palm to it and she would disappear, but he didn’t move. Dean yelled for Sam to stay back, but the woman didn’t pay Sam any mind. She walked purposefully toward Castiel, who was transfixed by her face: youthful beauty and sad eyes framed by long, copper hair. A golden corona blazed around her head. Until this moment, she had existed only in a photograph.

“We need to talk, Castiel,” she said. A touch to his forehead healed his palm and he stretched his fingers in disbelief. Noting the state of their clothes, she added, “Dean, you should button your pants.”

#

“An _angel_ ,” Dean repeated. He sat forward on the couch. Sam had backed himself against the windows with wide, fascinated eyes.

“A nephilim, specifically,” the angel, Anna, said. She and Castiel remained standing in the middle of the room. Nothing about her screamed supernatural, except her entrance and the bloodless knife wound in her chest. She could’ve been anyone off the street, dressed in jeans and a canvas jacket. “The offspring of an angel and a human. Their existence is forbidden, which is why I hid you, Castiel. I couldn’t bear to see you harmed.”

Castiel reeled from the knowledge that not only was his mother alive and standing in front of him, but that she was a celestial being and he, by extension, half of one. He wasn’t sure whether to cry or laugh and vacillated between the two extremes.

“The land’s warded,” Dean guessed.

“Yes,” Anna said. “The house makes him invisible to Heaven, and the perimeter of the property prevents entrance even to archangels.” She touched Castiel’s arm. “You have enough humanity in you that you were able to cross it, but I suspect it affected you.”

Castiel nodded dumbly, remembering how drained, how sick he felt, every time he’d stepped over the property line.

“I could hear you. I thought you were praying to me.” Anna smiled, but it slipped into something melancholy. “But then I heard that a nephilim had been seen, and I knew it was you. I knew you’d left the house.”

“That lady on the beach,” Sam said. “The one in the suit who was staring at you—you said something about light, Cas. Was she an angel?”

“Yes,” Anna said. She regarded Castiel sadly. “I kept my distance for your protection, but they nearly discovered you once, and we had to make it so not even I could enter. I thought if I could provide you with everything you could ever want, you would be able to live a full life, but I hadn’t considered how lonely you would be. It’s different for us.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Castiel asked, hopeful.

“They’ve sent someone to collect you. It will be a while before they locate us—I’ve already protected this house from their eyes—but Heaven has confirmation you exist. They won’t stop until they find you.” Anna turned to the brothers. “We’re hidden from them for the moment, but it won’t last. I can protect the two of you, make it so you’ll be permanently invisible to Heaven, even to me, but I can’t hide your grace, Castiel. It’s a beacon to them.”

“Why can’t he just go back to the house?” Dean asked. “You said they can’t reach him there.”

“Once they discover warded ground, they’ll blockade the perimeter,” she said. “Nothing in or out.”

“No more supplies,” Dean said.

“That doesn’t matter. I can live off the land,” Castiel insisted.

“For a time,” Anna said. “Eventually, they’ll wear you down or burn the forest. If I relocate you, they’ll do the same. They will never stop hunting you.”

“What’s the alternative?” Dean asked. “Sit around with our thumbs up our asses until some flying monkeys drop by to kill him?”

“They’ve sent an Authority,” she said. “We won’t wait long.”

“What’s that, an angelic hitman?” Dean said.

“That’s a crude way of putting it, but yes. It’s a type of warrior.”

“I don’t want Cas to die!” Sam cried.

“Neither do I,” Anna said. “That’s why I’m here, to try and stop it. But you will both be killed if you get in its way.”

She held up her hands. Dean’s chest grew tight and searing hot, like a fireball under his skin. Sam yelped. Dean rushed to him, his own pain already fading, and patted down his chest. Sam was shaken, a little green, but otherwise fine. No visible injuries.

“What the hell did you just do to us?” Dean yelled.

“I carved protection into your ribs,” Anna said. “They won’t be able to find or follow you. Now go.”

“Where?” Dean asked.

“Anywhere,” she said. “Just drive, but get as far as you can. They’re not looking for you, but don’t come back here.”

“We’re not leaving him,” Dean said.

“Dean—” Castiel began to protest, but Dean stood up. Anger burned his eyes.

“No. This isn’t his fault.”

“Think of your brother,” Anna said. “Your father.”

“My dad taught us not to back down from a fight,” Dean said. “If I go down, it’s gonna be swinging.”

“If Dean’s not leaving, neither am I,” Sam said with adolescent indignation.

“This is like nothing you’ve faced before. You saw what damage you did to me.” Anna pointed to the tear in her jacket. “It will not be as forgiving.”

“We’re not leaving,” Dean repeated.

“I’ve heard you’re difficult.” Anna sighed, but to Castiel she said, privately, “I’m glad you’ve found such loyal friends.”

#

There wasn’t much to do besides sit. Dean called his father’s phone repeatedly but got no answer, and left a series of voicemails. He minced the details, saying only that something had happened. Please call back.

Sam chewed his thumbnail and Castiel paced the window until Anna ordered him to sit. “They’ll see you through the glass,” she said. She pulled the curtains and Castiel sat miserably against Dean’s side, where he had been overjoyed not an hour ago.

He didn’t regret it. He didn’t regret leaving the house, even if it meant his extinction. Meeting Sam, his time with Dean—he cherished those scarce days above a lifetime behind glass.

For hours they waited in the dark, listening. Sam fell asleep, curled in a ball on the couch. Dean laid a blanket over him, but he stayed awake with Castiel and kept an arm around his back.

“You scared?” he asked. Castiel nodded against his shoulder. Every gust of wind, every creaking branch heralded the Authority’s arrival.

“Where’s my father?” Castiel asked.

“He’s safe,” Anna said.

“Where the hell’s he been all this time?” Dean asked.

“Chuck is a prophet,” she said. “I was assigned to protect him until he was compelled to receive the Word. An archangel watches over him now. It’s dangerous for both of you when he comes here.”

“And Hannah?” Castiel said. “Who was she?”

“A friend,” Anna said. “She didn’t approve of my choice, but I knew she would never betray us.”

An owl called above the drone of crickets and there came the rumble of an engine, the crunch of gravel under tires. Dean tightened his hold on Castiel. Headlights momentarily illuminated the window and Dean got up to peek through a gap in the curtains.

“That’s Bobby’s truck,” he exclaimed with relief. “Dad must’ve got my messages.”

The engine cut and the headlights dimmed, plunging the room into darkness. Dean went to the door to unlock it.

“Wait,” Anna commanded when his hand touched the lock.

“It’s my dad, I can see him,” Dean argued, but Anna shook her head.

“It’s taken a vessel,” she said. “It knew I would come.”

“That thing’s possessing my dad?”

“You and your brother must hide,” Anna said quietly. “Now, before it sees you.” When Dean didn’t immediately move, she waved her hand, and he and Sam vanished.

“Where did you send them?” Castiel whispered.

“The bedroom,” Anna said. Seemingly from the air, she withdrew a long sword, gleaming silver even in the dark, and held it at her side. Footsteps disturbed the gravel drive and approached the porch.

“Will it kill you if you try to stop it?” Castiel asked.

“I’m prepared for that.”

“And what about Sam and Dean’s father?”

Anna was silent, and Castiel had his answer. The footsteps reached the stairs and his heart quickened. He could watch his mother die and leave Sam and Dean without a parent, or he could make the choice to stop this. He was never supposed to exist, and the world would be no different without him in it.

“Will it leave if I give myself up?” he asked.

“I won’t let you bear the punishment for my mistake.”

“Will it leave?”

Anna paused. “Yes,” she said.

“Then there is no other choice,” said Castiel even as tears flooded his eyes and blurred the room. “Protect them.”

“Castiel—”

“Do this for me.”

The front door slammed open with the force of a hurricane and an imposing man strode in. He had deep-set, haunted eyes and a graying beard clipped close to his face. But there was something preternatural in his stare, in the way he held himself—rigidly, as the woman on the beach had done.

Castiel stepped forward and prostrated himself, sinking to the floor. _Make it quick_ , he thought and bowed his head. Anna didn’t try to stop him. _Please make it painless_.

Mud-splattered boots stopped in front of him, inches from his knees. A heavy hand touched the back of his neck. His skin began to tingle and he held his last breath.

“Dad, no!” Dean yelled behind him. He ran toward them, his footsteps shaking the cabin, and forced himself between Castiel and the angel. Castiel called his name, but Dean had his fists pressed to his father’s chest and was attempting to walk him backwards.

“Dad, it’s me,” he begged. “I know you’re in there. You don’t have to do this!”

The angel said nothing. It brought the heel of its palm to Dean’s forehead and a blinding light coursed from it, flowing into Dean’s body and out through his eyes and ears. His inner light blazed red as blood, as bright and righteous as Castiel had seen, and burned out. Dean fell lifeless to the floor.

“No!” Castiel shouted.

He crawled to Dean and frantically put two fingers on his neck to feel for his pulse— _oh, God, please_ , he thought, _please be alive_ —but Dean’s heart had stopped. His face was frozen in a horrible cry, eyes scorched and blackened. Smoke twisted from their burned-out sockets and Castiel choked on the stench.

Instinctively, he shielded Dean’s body with his. He kissed his ruined eyes and as he began to cry, he rocked Dean against his chest. He should never have come here. If only he’d been faster, knelt down a moment sooner or faced the angel outside, Dean would still be alive.

The cabin quaked the harder he cried, shaking the foundation. Tremors splintered the floorboards and the windows quivered in their panes and shattered. Overwhelming anguish and desperation built in his chest, the pressure becoming so great that he screamed, and Castiel was violently rent apart.

Phantom limbs stretched to breaking and tore from his back, leaving it raw and throbbing. He wailed and clutched Dean to him, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt to try and withstand the pain, but it went beyond physical. It ripped his soul in two. He ached in places he couldn’t touch and screamed until his voice broke, until he dissolved into sobs that he cried into Dean’s hair.

The cabin had gone still. He heard his own desperate breaths and the thrum of insects outside, but the shaking had stopped. Each breath halved the pain in his body. Trembling, Castiel cracked swollen eyes.

Sam hovered at the mouth of the hallway, his face red and wet. He clutched his stomach and silently mouthed his brother’s name. Anna stood in front of him with her sword raised, prepared to defend him. No light came from either of them. Castiel blinked to clear his eyes but their light didn’t return. The angel, too, was dark. It no longer focused on him. Something soft brushed Castiel’s cheek and, glancing up, he realized why.

Petals rained from a tree sprung from the floorboards. It grew to the ceiling, thick limbs running parallel to it for the length and width of the room. A beautiful tree, its bark unblemished, and every branch covered in perfect, white flowers. Their petals drifted slowly, directed by the breeze through the broken windows, and settled on the floor and on Dean’s legs.

“What is this?” the angel demanded.

“He tore out his grace.” Anna placed a reverent hand on the trunk of the tree. “I wouldn’t have thought it was possible.”

The angel turned back to Castiel, and he knew it still meant to kill him. “This changes nothing,” it said.

“Castiel is human now,” Anna said, coming toward it. “You no longer have a reason to kill him. He poses no threat to Heaven anymore.”

“I have my orders,” the angel said.

Anna’s sword sang in her hand. “That is not the will of God,” she said.

The angel’s eyes flashed. “Who are you to speak of God, traitor? You defiled yourself.”

“God taught us to love humanity above all other things. And I have loved it.” She raised her chin proudly. “That is no sin, yet you killed this boy without mercy and would willingly kill another.”

“That,” the angel spat, pointing to Castiel, “is an abomination.”

“You have lost your way, brother.” She stepped past Castiel and jabbed the sword tip into the angel’s throat. “Return to Heaven. Tell them your mission is complete—the nephilim is dead. Leave us in peace and I will not tell them what you have done.”

The angel said nothing for a long time but finally withdrew its hand. It glanced to Castiel and the body in his arms, weighing its options. What Anna said must have convinced it, because it tipped its head backwards and blue light curled like smoke from John Winchester’s mouth. He coughed and collapsed to his knees. Anna launched her sword into the midst of the light. It crackled like an electric storm and vanished in a thunderclap.

“You killed it,” Castiel said, chest heaving.

“I couldn’t take the risk.” She sheathed the sword. “They can never find you now.”

Her words were no comfort. Castiel tucked his face into Dean’s neck. His skin was still warm, body limp in his arms, and Castiel cried. Sam rushed forward now that the angel was gone and threw himself wailing onto Dean’s stomach. He fisted his hands in Dean’s t-shirt and sobbed his name.

“What—what’s going on?” John slurred. He rubbed his eyes as though he might be dreaming. “Sam? Dean!”

Castiel reluctantly let Dean go, allowing himself a final kiss before laying him on his back. He stilled at what he saw. Dean’s eyes were closed, no longer burned and smoking. The skin on his face had stitched together as if the scars had never been. With his heart in his throat, Castiel pressed an ear to Dean’s chest and gasped at the steady _thump, thump, thump_ of his heart.

“He’s alive!” He listened again to be sure, but yes, _yes_ , that was Dean’s heart. Castiel embraced Sam, smoothing down his hair and promised, “It’s alright. Dean’s alive.” He looked into John Winchester’s eyes for the first time and repeated, “He’s alive.”

Although he wanted nothing more in that moment than to lie down next to Dean, to gather him in his arms and hold him, he stood up and allowed Sam and his father access. John held both of his boys close, and Castiel stood next to Anna. Next to his mother. She was beautiful even without her light.

“How is it possible?” he whispered. “He was dead.”

“You healed him. He must be very special.” Anna turned him toward her and placed a hand on each of his shoulders. She stood on tip-toe to kiss his forehead. “I must go. Will you be alright?”

“Yes.”

“The house and land are yours for as long as you want them. But wherever you go, pray to me, and I’ll see you have everything you need.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m proud of you, Castiel,” she said. “You will always have my love.”

“Please tell my father hello,” he said and she was gone in a flurry of unseen wings.

#

John carried Dean to bed. They stood around him for a while, but he’d sleep for a few hours, so they went to the kitchen to talk. Castiel sat at the counter and Sam took the stool beside him. His face was still hot and itchy from crying. With a scowl, John gave Castiel a once-over.

“Who are you and why were you kissing my son?”

Castiel stiffened, but before he could answer, Sam piped up, “This is Cas. He's our friend.” That didn't explain the kissing part, and since dad couldn’t really be mad at Dean right now, he wiped his nose and added, “Actually, he's _my_ friend. He and Dean are boyfriends.” Dean could thank him later.

John rubbed the creases in his forehead. “This has been one hell of a day. I was having a beer with Bobby when a voice starts telling me I have to say ‘yes’ to an angel of the Lord because my boys are in trouble. Next thing I know, I'm waking up on the floor. And there's a tree growing out of it.”

Sam's throat was sore, but he managed an expressive recap of the day's events that ended with, “And that’s when Anna killed it. I didn’t think angels were real.”

“That makes two of us, Sammy.” John cleared his throat and roughly shook Castiel’s hand. “Thank you for saving my boy.” He stepped back and sniffed. “I oughta give Bobby a call, let him know where the hell I am. I stranded him without a car.”

He patted Sam’s shoulder and took the wall phone from its cradle. Sam’s watch beeped; it was three fifteen in the morning. He yawned, and maybe it was the weight of the day catching up with him or a new effect of being fully human, because Castiel yawned too.

“I’m gonna sleep in Dean’s room,” Sam told him. “You want to come?”

He was glad he’d asked for the grateful look in Castiel’s eyes.

They settled next to Dean on top of the covers, Sam with his head on Dean’s pillow and Castiel sitting up to watch over both of them. John must have covered them with a blanket during the night, because Sam woke up warm, to the sound of Dean breathing.

#

Once he’d ensured that Dean would recover and cooked all three boys breakfast, John left in the truck to pick up Bobby and returned with him late that afternoon. Dean had gotten out of bed and made it as far as the couch before collapsing. If they sat far enough to the right, they could see the television screen around the tree trunk.

Bobby caught Dean's face and congratulated him on his rapid healing ability. He frowned at Castiel when he shook his hand, which Dean assured him was the way Bobby treated the people he liked best.

“Maybe it'll come in handy at Christmas,” Bobby said of the tree. “I don't know what I'm going to tell Mackey.”

“Guess we should sweep up the petals,” Dean said. “Sam, go find a broom.”

Sam stuck out his tongue and didn’t move from the couch. Bobby jerked a thumb at Castiel. “What are we doing about him?”

“He's coming with us,” Dean said.

“Dean,” John argued. “We’re struggling as it is. I can’t afford to feed him, too.”

“I have money,” Castiel said. “I have the house. I can sell it.”

“You don’t know the first thing about hunting,” John continued. “You’d only slow us down.”

“But he's smart, dad,” Sam said. “He's read more books than Bobby.”

“I can be useful,” Castiel promised.

“I don’t give a shit if you’re useful,” Dean said, squeezing his knee. “I’m not leaving here without you, not if you’re willing to come. And if you’re not, then...I’m staying here.”

“Dean, you’re nineteen years old,” John said. “You’ve known each other less than two weeks.”

“What I just went through? I’m in no hurry to do it again. There’s bound to be work around here. Maybe I can go back to the school.”

“If Dean’s staying, I want to stay too,” Sam said.

“Alright, enough.” John dropped his face into his hands and took a deep breath. “I need to sleep for about a day. We’ll figure this out when I can see straight.”

He glanced to Dean’s hand on Castiel’s leg and, shaking his head, went to the unoccupied bedroom at the end of the hall without another word.

“Boys, you want supper?” Bobby asked. He slapped his thighs when he stood up. Sam bounded to the kitchen to help him, and Dean turned his head toward Castiel.

“If you do decide to come with us, we should find your dad. Pay him a visit.”

“I’d like that,” Castiel said wistfully. “There are so many places I want to see.”

“So we’ll see them.” Dean gave him a faint smile. “Hey...did you really kiss me in front of my dad, or is Sam messing with me?”

“I did,” Castiel admitted. “Though technically, you weren’t alive at the time, so one could argue your involvement. I’m sorry if I put you in a difficult situation.”

Dean let out a puff of laughter. “I thought he’d be more of a dick about it, that’s all.”

“He saw you die. There are more important things to be concerned about.”

“I guess.” Dean fiddled with a seam on Castiel’s pants. “How’d I look as a corpse?”

“Your eyes were burned out,” Castiel said, trying not to picture Dean’s face, the overwhelming stench of burned flesh. He pushed a fist against his mouth to steady his stomach.

“Sorry,” Dean said. He nudged Castiel’s leg. “Thanks for...y’know. Saving my life.”

“I’m the one who put your life in danger, Dean.” Castiel shook his head. “I can’t begin to apologize for what I did—”

“Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up,” Dean said and kissed him.

“We can see you,” Sam called in sing-song.

Dean made a rude gesture with his hand, and he and Sam bickered back and forth, tossing affectionate insults at one another until Bobby snapped at them to close their traps. Castiel would have years of this: boisterous car rides, the delightful chaos of shared motel rooms, being mocked by a younger brother pretending to kiss a stainless-steel pan. His bees would swarm and find another home. Castiel relaxed into the couch, into Dean’s side, and relished the noise.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Original prompt (#93):** Life as he has known it is over for Adan when his mother tells him she has bought a mansion in an exclusive community high in the redwood mountains. There are no other young people living there except one, a girl named Chrystal who has never been outside the community before or known anyone her own age. But Adan can only admire Chrystal from afar, she is beautiful and he is covered in scars.
> 
> I wrote 5k of this for a fundraiser. Thank you to sweet-destiel, eshtiel, irmavepkitty, Ri, Eric, quickreaver, octuse, penniavaswen, Claudia, and Andee for their support. ♥
> 
> If you want to see the house I used as reference for Cas's, it's [on Pinterest](https://www.pinterest.com/museaway/spn-behind-glass/) along with pictures of a very young and beautiful Jensen (hold me). There are a few others [on tumblr](http://www.museaway.com/tagged/spn%20mtb). If you want to see the locations, here's the [Google Map](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1NN8NFPCZE0nvJtzSAnIpk-6RRq4&usp=sharing). This was my [writing playlist](http://8tracks.com/museaway/behind-glass). My baby sister used to bury bumblebees that had died. The first Petal Drop LA inspired a scene in this, so there's a lovely symmetry that Petal Drop 2 took place the day this posted! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! If you're on twitter, please [come say hi](https://twitter.com/museawayfic).


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